


It All Lies Here

by MillionMileMountain



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: AH OT6, FAHC, GTA AU, Major character death - Freeform, Multi, Please don't hate me for this, Temporary Character Death, Yikes, and lots of emotional angst, no one stays dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-01 20:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15781317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillionMileMountain/pseuds/MillionMileMountain
Summary: The Fake AH Crew has ruled over Los Santos for more years than they can count. They had to fall sooner or later.





	1. The Lives We Lead

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this thing for the better part of a month or so, and I'm very excited to be finally sharing this with you! Go ahead and feel free to leave a comment or a kudos. Also if you wanna, go ahead and drop by my tumblr, @the-million-mile-mountain. My ask box is open and prompts are welcome, so feel free to pop by! :)

Jeremy Dooley is the first to die.

It’s on the nightly news, in every paper across the city, passed around the other gangs like wildfire. Rimmy Tim, Los Santo’s infamous madman, gone up in flames, his car turned over and dug into the dirt. It had been a long and tedious car chase, the cops nearly losing sight of him several times before the Rimmy-mobile had lost control, practically flying into a nearby field. By the time law enforcement had reached the scene, there was nothing to be found aside from the blazing car and charred leather interior.

From the outside, nothing appears to change with the Fakes. Half the city expects them to go scouting for another member for their inner circle, a sixth to balance them out like they’ve always had, but it never happens. Instead, the deals go down like normal, the crew members still take jobs around the city. To all who aren’t involved, it almost looks like it doesn’t affect the Fakes at all. But there are a few perceptive individuals, the B Team and a few dirty cops on their pay role, who notice things. They’re small, hardly worth mentioning, but the Vagabond seems to stand a little stiffer during drug exchanges, Ramsey’s eyes lose their sparkle, and the Golden Boy’s shine is dimmer now.

Trevor is the first to really see it. He’s visiting the penthouse, running some updates on a small-time gang scuffle back to Geoff, when he sees Gavin and Michael on the couch in the living room. They’re staring at the television, leaning against each other, their eyes vacant and hollow. The two men are getting a little gray around the beards; they’ve been doing this for more years than anyone thought possible, but they’ve never looked so…old. Here, letting their age and grief show, Trevor realizes he’s never seen them not laughing. Or yelling. Or just generally roughhousing. He clutches the files closer to his chest, making his way to Geoff’s office as he tries to block out the sound of Jeremy’s laughter, the home-made videos still playing on the big screen.

“Knock knock!” Trevor chirps, forcing happiness into his voice as he walks into the office. There’s papers on the desk, screens glowing on nearly every wall, but Geoff is merely reclined in his office chair, a bottle of scotch in one hand and the other rubbing at his temples.

“Got what you asked for, boss.” He plops the files down in front of Geoff, startling the other man into sitting up straight. Trevor pretends to not notice Geoff wiping away the tears. Or the bags under his eyes. Or how it looks like the man hasn’t shaved or slept for about four days, if the amount of stubble on his chin is anything to go by.

“Thanks man, I’ll look it over in a bit.” Geoff settles back into his chair, the worn leather creaking in protest.

Trevor nearly turns, nearly walks away from this whole thing, but he pauses just in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. He’s known Geoff for years, ever since he took Trevor in off the streets, gave him a job, a home, people to call family. Geoff is the reason that he has Alfredo for a partner, Matt for a friend, Meg and Lindsay as a team, a future to look forward to. Geoff and his gang have always been there for him. And now, though he knows that he wasn’t anywhere near as close to Jeremy as Geoff was, he still can’t help but miss the older man.

“Look, I’m not really good with words, I don’t know if it’s my place to say anything,” he begins. Geoff doesn’t make any indication he hears Trevor, but doesn’t tell him to go away either. “But he was a good guy. We’re all gonna miss him.” Trevor tries to ignore the way his own voice wavers.

Geoff lets out a heavy sigh, and Trevor can hear the weight in it. “Yeah. Things just…won’t be the same without him.” He sniffles loudly, taking another swig of scotch as a few more tears roll their way into his beard.

When Geoff doesn’t continue, Trevor merely leaves, making a mental note to tell Jack to lock up the liquor, at least for a little while.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Gavin is next.

No one expects it. It’s a high-speed pursuit down the coast, Gavin’s bike creating bright pink trails in the darkness and flashing red and blue lights try to keep up with him. They have reports of the others involved in the heist having already evaded law enforcement, but this chase seems to be lasting a bit longer. From the news helicopter following along, it almost looks like Gavin will get away again just like the times before, disappearing into the night without a trace only to reappear the next day. It’s a plot even the police are expecting to follow, so it’s a shock when Gavin’s trail of lights plummets into the ocean. His bike runs dead into a guard rail, and the rider goes somersaulting into the sea.

The cops never find the body. Honestly, they don’t really try; a storm kicks up right after they lose Gavin and they lose hope of finding him. The ripples across the crime world are a little stronger this time; the Golden Boy, Ramsey’s infamous hacker, is gone. No more internet surveillance, no more tracking or monitoring how much information that man may or may not have access to. The other gangs in the area start to pick up activity, emboldened by the Super Power’s sudden loss of influence. Sure, they may seem as calm and collected as ever as they run their usual jobs, but the gang bosses and drug lords around the city boast that they have to be crumbling.

The turn out to be more right than they think.

Lindsay races to the penthouse as soon as she hears the news. Yes, Jeremy’s death had hit her and the rest of the B Team hard, but Trevor had warned them to stay away, to give the crew time to grieve. To his credit, he’d tried to tell her the same this time, but this is Gavin. Her boy, her partner in crime, her best friend is gone. And this is Michael. As much as Lindsay hurts, which is a fucking lot, she knows that out of all six partners, Michael has to be hurting the worst.

Lindsay is almost expecting there to be shouting when she bursts into the penthouse. Screaming, things breaking, Ryan yelling back, _something_. But instead, the quiet is almost suffocating. Ryan’s on the couch, his skull mask nestled firmly on his face and his eyes glued to the television. She can hear the re-hashing of tonight’s fateful car chase, and she’d have half a mind to scold him to torturing himself, but instead she makes a beeline for the back bedrooms.

She doesn’t even bother knocking before barging into Michael’s room, and her heart nearly stops at what she sees. Michael, the firecracker, the loudest of the lads, is curled into a ball on Gavin’s side of their humungous bed, pressing Gavin’s pillow to his face. She can see his shoulders shake from her position in the door, and the quietest of sniffles and sobs echo in the silence.

“Oh Michael,” Lindsay breathes, immediately rushing to the other side of the bed. In the dim glow of the single lamp, Lindsay can see the tears tracks running down his freckled cheeks. She cradles his face in her hands, tears forming in her own eyes, and he doesn’t even look at her and she brushes her fingers down to his shoulders, pulling him into a somewhat awkward but crushing hug.

“Michael, I’m so sorry.”

Michael say nothing, just snakes one hand around her neck and crushes her to him, and she chooses not to mention him shaking as the sobbing starts back up.

They lay together in bed like this for a long while, only pulling away when Michael’s breathing evens out, his shoulders losing their tension and his face going slack. Lindsay doesn’t hide her open staring, wondering how one person can go from being so vibrant and full of life to a mere husk of who they used to be. Michael’s been in this business for nearing thirty years, an impressive feat for anyone in this walk of life, and in all the time Lindsay has known him, both as a dirty cop and as a fellow criminal, she’s never known him to not be…loud. Obnoxious. Reckless and brash. Loving and caring. _Himself._ But now, with his boi gone and Jeremy already buried, he’s empty. And that’s not something Lindsay likes to see.

She wipes a thumb across his cheek, the other hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. “I’m sorry,” she says again, because at this point, what else is there to say? Gavin and Michael were together the longest, boyfriends and partners before even meeting the Fakes. A bond like that…it can’t be fixed with just words. Michael just lowers his eyes, fingers idly playing with the now-fraying edge of Gavin’s pillow.

Lindsay’s a talker, always has been and always will be. As The Phoenix, Agent of Chaos, and an absolute madwoman with a rocket launcher, there’s nothing she can’t and won’t do to bring her enemies to their knees in both fear and awe. But now, as Lindsey Tuggey, best friend to Michael and Gavin, she can’t find anything to do except hold Michael as he falls into a fitful sleep.

When Michael wakes the next morning, Lindsay is still here, small circles under eyes and a flimsy smile on her lips. And if she notices Michael reaching to the other side of the bed, desperately looking for Gavin under the covers, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she makes the remains of the crew french toast, not sticking around long enough to intrude on their private moment of grief.

On her way out, Michael tugs on her sleeve, fixes her with a steely gaze, and whispers something into her ear.

“Take care of Meg.”

Her heart squeezes as she thinks of her girlfriend, who must also be devastated, and just nods, peeling away from the building a minute later.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..

 

No one is really that shocked when Michael goes next.

Mogar had been irritable the past few weeks, without the calming presences of the Golden Boy and Rimmy Tim to ground him. Setting fires, starting fights, and causing havoc have been his pastimes of late, and the other gangs just know it’s a matter of time before he does something stupid, like set a building on fire and not make it out.

Which is exactly what happens.

The nightly news covers it as a freak accident, a stray power line that had gone haywire and set an empty apartment building ablaze. And, by all accounts, that’s exactly what it looked like. Anyone who may have been in the building at the time would be unidentifiable by now, burnt to char by the blaze. The news crew conveniently left out that there was a tag on the side of the building, a “G” in bright gold spray paint. Or that there had been a puddle of gasoline near where the fire had started. Or that there was no way the power line could have just fallen into the middle of the building.

Or that all the doors were locked from the inside.

Meg is the one to visit this time, her already-thin figure shaking with rage. She barges into the penthouse, her hands curled into fists, knives clenched in each hand. She doesn’t announce herself, doesn’t ask if anyone is there, just lets out a blood-curdling scream. Three gaunt and mildly-alarmed figures appear from around the corner, their guns dropping as they catch sight of the infamous Baby Doll.

“Meg, what’re y—”

Meg interrupts Jack as she launches herself at Ryan, the older man’s eyes going wide behind his mask. Meg can’t think of anything coherent to say as they tussle on their carpeted floor of the penthouse, so she just starts yelling. A shout when he knocks the knives from her hands, a yell when she lands a punch on his chin, a scream when he falls and she pounces, fists pounding into his chest with a series of solid thumps.

She’s barely aware of Geoff and Jack yelling in the background, of their hands grabbing at her arms, of them bodily hauling her away from the Vagabond. Ryan merely stands up slowly, eyes not reaching hers as he reaches beneath his mask to wipe away some stray blood.

“You were supposed to keep him safe!” Meg screeches, struggling against Jack’s arms as she pins the smaller girl to her body. “You were supposed to watch him, make sure he didn’t do something stupid!”

“It’s isn’t anyone’s fault—” Jack soothes, but Meg just shouts again, he voice cracking near the end as she tries to keep the lump in her throat away.

“No! Someone should have been with him! I should have—” Meg breaks off, tears pricking at the backs of her eyes. She stops struggling, going limp in Jack’s arms. “I should have been there.” Meg’s voice is barely a whisper now, and she doesn’t even try to keep the tears from falling. Jack lowers her slowly to the ground, Geoff’s hands on Meg’s shoulders to steady her. Meg grips her own shoulders, as if trying to keep herself from breaking apart. “I should have kept him safe.”

Meg stiffens as large arms encircle her, and she feels the rubber of Ryan’s mask rub against her cheek as he squeezes. “It’s not your fault. He was hurting.” She can hear the tremor in Ryan’s voice as he speaks, feel the trembling in his shoulders. “No one could have stopped him, you know that.”

Meg barks out a short laugh, arms gripping at Ryan’s leather jacket, hiding her face in his neck. He still smells like Michael a bit, like Gavin and Jeremy too. Meg’s been a part of the B Team for years, known Ryan and Michael for longer than that. Back when they’d first met, it had almost seemed like they couldn’t die. Like they could rule the world forever, side by side. But now, that dream is crumbling, and the only people left are sobbing in each other’s arms, the night closing in around the penthouse and the remnants of its broken crew.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..

 

The others follow soon after.

What was left of the Fake AH Crew had tried to do something small-time, rob a bank like they’d used to back when they were two-bit criminals. And at first, it had all gone smoothly. The money was in the cars, the police were almost evaded.

Until the blockade.

The news stations had eaten up the story of Ryan Haywood, the infamous Vagabond going down in a blaze of glory, law enforcement on all sides as he fires his weapon into the mass of officers. They say that Sergeant Burns was the one to fire the killing blow, a bullet aimed at a weak spot in his already-damaged body armor that dropped the criminal in a matter of seconds. The Kingpin and his Right Hand were nowhere to be found during the confrontation, but many suspected they had retreated to their base to lick their wounds, the only members of the Fakes left alive. In certain circles, plans begin to form: take out the last two remaining members of the original Fakes and their territory would be up for grabs. Multiple crews around the area begin to whisper and plot; now that the Vagabond is out of the way, the other two will be easy pickings.

It only takes a few moments after hearing these rumors for Trevor to immediately set out for the penthouse.

Trevor speeds over as fast as he can, swerving in between summer tourists and cops cars who didn’t bother chasing after him. Everyone in the city knows that Trevor’s fleet of cars can outrun the cops any day at half-speed, and his foot is already pressed to the floor, the landscape blurring into a haze of building and headlights as he speeds to the penthouse.

Trevor knows that something is wrong as soon as he enters the penthouse. The lights are all off save for a few lamps in the corners. The coffee table and kitchen counter are immaculate, not a stray coffee mug or glass of beer left out, almost like no one’s lived here in months. The silence in the flat is only broken by the dull drone of the television still left on; just a few months ago, he’d be able to hear Michael screaming after Gavin, Jeremy laughing manically as he watched from the couch. Geoff would be half-heartedly trying to get the two younger men to calm down, and Jack and Ryan would just watch from the kitchen with matching grins, tired but fond, on their faces. The penthouse had never been silent, or clean for that matter, in the several years that Trevor had known the six Fakes. But now…

“Geoff?” Trevor calls out into the empty house. “Jack? You there?” Only his own voice answered him back, the blank, white walls almost mocking him. Trevor takes a moment to wonder when the photos, pictures of heists and vacations and picnics, had disappeared from the walls. It may have been right after Jeremy died; after all, being constantly reminded of someone who wasn’t there anymore couldn’t have been easy.

Trevor makes his way into the living room, and the two things that catch his eye make his heart drop. The first is an envelope, plain white with only his name on the front. It sits on the coffee table, as if awaiting his arrival. The second is the television. It’s tuned into a news channel, the blond woman sitting behind her desk obviously reading off of a teleprompter behind the camera.

However, it isn’t simply the news story that has Trevor’s blood freezing in his veins. It’s the video playing in the top right corner of the screen, and Trevor frantically grabs for a remote, turning up the volume in horror.

“—appears to have collided with the side of Mount Chiliad after a malfunction with the aircraft.” The camera zooms in on the brunt-out husk of a chopper, the make and model undeniably Jack’s prized helicopter. Trevor would know that vehicle anywhere; heaven knows he’d gone on enough jobs in that thing with Jack in the cockpit. “Officer Sorola of the LSPD recovered two bodies, positively identified as the Kingpin Geoff Ramsey and his right hand, Jack Pattillo.” The screen in the background changes to a still photograph of Gus, still in his uniform, and Trevor could have sworn that Geoff had paid off that officer ages ago.

The image of Jack’s helicopter, still ablaze and bent at awkward angles, slides back onto the screen, and Trevor can’t seem to move. He isn’t one to cry very often, hell he’s more likely to laugh something off and deal with it later, but something hollow settle sin his chest, and he opens Geoff’s letter without thinking, bringing the paper up to his face with shaking hands. It has Geoff’s trademark scrawl across the front, and he’s thankful he’s had years of reading his handwriting, or else it’d be illegible.

 

_Hey there,_

_If you’re reading this, then I guess the worst happened. I didn’t wanna write this; it’s bad luck to act like you’re gonna die, ‘cause then it’s a guarantee. But with everything that’s happened, Jack said we have to have a backup plan. Which is you, I guess. The key to the penthouse and all of the passcodes to the warehouses and shit are in this envelope. Looks like you’re the next Big Man, kid. I hereby ~~beq~~ ~~beake bequeathe~~ leave the city to you. Take good care of the city while we’re gone, keep Lindsay and Meg from blowing it up._

_See ya, kid._

_Geoff, Jack, and Ryan_

_P.S.: The faucet in the secondary bathroom leaks, just so you know. Might wanna get that looked at._

 

Trevor glances between the screen and the letter, his heart pounding in his ears, his hands not quite feeling like his own. When Trevor had joined the Fakes, they had become his family almost instantly. That family had only gotten bigger when the rest of the B Team had come aboard, the whole lot of them nearly inseparable. But now…

It’s just them left. Just Trevor and his team. His family, the people he could trust with his life and more, are mostly gone now. He only has Alfredo, Lindsay, and Meg left. And as much as he truly cares for his team, sees them as family, there’s nothing they can do to replace Geoff and his goofy grins, his advice that sounds a little too sage coming from someone like him, or Jack with her reassuring presence and sharp wit. Michael too, Gavin and Ryan and Jeremy, they had at one point all seemed so invincible. But now, with the letter in his hands and the television still droning on, Trevor can’t help but feel small, almost lost without his family.

He isn’t quite sure how long he stands there, how long the tears have been falling, but when he comes back to reality, Alfredo’s arms are around his shoulders. They’re sitting on the couch. The TV is off, the letter in on the table, and Alfredo murmuring comforting words to him through his own tears. Trevor just lets this happen, closing his eyes and hoping that this nightmare will end soon.


	2. The Lies We Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sudden letter has Trevor travelling halfway across the world. Because people can't come back from the dead...right?

“The deed’s been done,” Lindsay crows, dropping a bundle of photos on Trevor’s desk. Trevor looks up from his phone, spreading the pictures out with a hand; the drug dealer Lindsay had been sent to rough up is in every one of them, in increasing stages of dismemberment. There’s one near the bottom of the stack with Lindsay and Meg both taking a selfie in front of the victim, blood pouring down his face while they flash peace signs.

“Good work,” Trevor says, collecting the photos and shoving them into a drawer. “Were the cat ears really necessary though?”

Lindsay just shrugs with a grin. “You know Meg.”

“Somehow I doubt it was Meg.”

Lindsay turns on her heels with a cackle, and Trevor watches her go, a smile on his face. It’s been a while since Lindsay has truly enjoyed herself, whether it be on or off jobs. It had been a month or so after the Fakes had all passed before Meg had managed to do anything more than glare. Lindsay hadn’t so much as laughed until after that. And now, almost seven months after the fact, things finally seemed to be returning to normal.

“Hey ‘Fredo,” Trevor says, not even looking up as his boyfriend enters the room; he can identify various international criminals by voice alone, so he is more than capable of knowing what his partner’s footsteps sound like. He yanks gently at Alfredo’s collar as he comes close, tugging him down into a quick kiss. “We still on for dinner?”

“Yep, got us a table down at that sushi place you love.” As Alfredo’s eyes crinkle around the corners and his lips split into a grin, Trevor can’t help but think about how much he’s missed this. The typically rambunctious and lively man has just returned to normal after months of grim nonchalance and crying in private. Trevor draws idle patterns on the back of Alfredo’s hand, breathing in his cologne.

Alfredo chuckles, pulling his hand away and smacking Trevor lightly upside the head. “You’re going soft,” he says, his eyes crinkling around the edges.

“What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart.” Trevor blows a kiss in Alfredo’s direction, throwing in a dramatic wink for good measure.

Alfredo merely chuckles again before reaching into his pocket. “Oh, this came in for you.” Alfredo hands over an envelope, empty of return address and addressed to him only by the first name.

“Probably a death threat. Or worse, a bill.”

“One can only hope,” Alfredo says with a shrug, making his way to the door. He pauses at the entrance, turning back to Trevor for a moment. “You coming with us tomorrow?”

Trevor pauses for a moment, glancing down at the photo in the corner of the desk. Geoff and Jack smile back at him, their arms looped around each other as Jeremy and Michael wrestle in the foreground. He can just barely see Ryan and Gavin in the back, mere blurs as the Vagabond chases the Golden Boy around with a fairly large wrench. The photo looks to be near the beginning of the Fakes’ reign over Los Santos, their faces still beaming in the sunlight. The spot they had been standing then, a peaceful area near the top of Mount Chiliad, is where the former B Team had placed their empty graves. The only bodies they had been able to recover had been burnt beyond recognition, and Ryan’s corpse had been destroyed by the cops, so there had been nothing to put in the ground. Still, their resting place is relatively humble as compared to how the crew was in life.

“I think I’ll come along this time.” He owes it to them, after all; after spending weeks too buried in paperwork and crew politics to properly tag along, it’s probably time to visit their graves.

Alfredo beams, nodding quickly before zipping out of the office. Trevor leans back in his chair, grinning a bit in fondness and he twirls the envelope in his hands. It’s heartening to see the members of his crew in such good spirits. It’s taken a long while for everyone’s smiles to return, his own included. The original Fakes had been closer than family to everyone on the B Team, and Trevor had known them since he was a mere teenager. Sometimes he’ll still expect Geoff to text him or Jeremy to show up at his door, a half-formed plan for destruction on his lips. Trevor rips the envelope open, smiling fondly at the photo on his desk. Maybe one day he’d be that kind of family for someone else.

The paper tumbles out of the envelope, and Trevor can’t help the sinking suspicion that rises in his stomach as he reads it. It’s just a time, date, and location. No name, no location of origin, nothing aside from the three sentences. There’s something about the letter that strikes him as familiar, though. Trevor holds it close, squinting at the handwriting, the paper, the ink, the wheels in his head turning.

“Alfredo!” Trevor squawks, and the other man’s face appears in the doorway after a moment. “Change of plans. Something just came up.”

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

When he pulls up to the park, Trevor isn’t really sure what to expect.

A letter, a date, and a set of coordinates. That’s all that it took to drag him halfway across the world. A simple piece of paper, the whiff of a wild goose chase, and he suddenly finds himself at a small public park. It’s mostly abandoned, seeing as the sun is just about set, but it’s not cold enough out to warrant anything more than a light jacket. There’s a soft glow coming from the street lamps on the corners as Trevor climbs out of the car, stuffing his hands into his pockets to avoid the chill. His fingertips brush the edges of paper, crinkled and fraying with wear, and suddenly Trevor is much more unsure than ever. It’s more than the contents of the letter that have summoned him at a moment’s notice.

It’s the handwriting. Crooked, slanted, near-impossible to read if it hadn’t been for his years of experience.

Trevor stalks silently a bit further into the park, taking a seat on a bench close to the entrance. He pulls the note out of his pocket once more, squinting in the low light, as if his location will suddenly change the contents of the letter like in the movies. Trevor shakes his head, letting out a long sigh. This isn’t the movies, he knows this. It’s real life, and people don’t just up and come back from the dead, even if a mysterious letter shows up months later with their handwriting. Before now, Trevor would have been certain he could tell Geoff’s chicken scratch from anyone else’s. But here, halfway across the damn planet and freezing his ass off, Trevor knows it’s hopeless. Geoff’s dead. No letter will change that.

He stuffs the paper back in his pocket, shaking his head again. He is about to head for the car, already planning on blasting the heater, when a voice stops him in his tracks.

“Hey, Trev.”

Trevor freezes in place, his heart beating too fast, his mind suddenly blank. In any other life, he would recognize that voice in an instant; it’s gravelly from years of use but still warm, and you can practically hear the smirk. It’s a voice that used to comfort Trevor, the voice belonging to the first person who ever showed him any kindness.

Trevor turns, slowly, to face the source of the sound, and there he is. His hair is more salt than pepper at this point, and he’s bundled up in a couple different jackets, but it’s him. There’s no mistaking it. Geoff slouches against the bitter cold, his nose red, his eyes fixed on Trevor’s.

And suddenly Trevor isn’t Trevor anymore. His mind closes down, his back straightens up, and a plastic smile forces its way onto his face. It’s a transformation he’s more than familiar with; with cold eyes and a smooth voice, hair slicked back and fingers wrapped around the handle of a knife, he becomes the man who now runs Los Santos, the new Kingpin. A calm voice that knows which questions to ask, a cheerful façade to put his enemies at ease. It’s a persona that comes almost too easily for Trevor, but it’s automatic now, a way to hide his shattering heart behind a placid grin.

“Long time no see!” Trevor says brightly, and nothing feels real. Geoff looks too far away and too close at once, and his limbs no longer feel like his own.

Geoff’s mouth opens and then closes, his eyes crinkling in confusion. Trevor notices his hands slips out of his pockets, empty for now. “Yeah, I guess. How…how ya’ been?”

“Oh just fine,” Trevor says, and the lie is too sweet, too sing-song. But that plastic smile stays in place, and he has to fight the rising lump in his throat. “You’re looking pretty good yourself. For a dead man and all. How are the others doing? I’m just going to assume that they’re here too.” Trevor hopes they’re not, that this is some sort of trick played by one man, not a deception pulled by his entire family.

Geoff flinches back, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Yeah, they’re all okay,” and Trevor’s heart sinks even further, but Geoff continues. “I know it’s a lot to take in, sorry ‘bout that. There’s a good reason, I swear.”

“Oh, now that’s something I have to hear.” Trevor crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Please, regale me with the ‘reason’ you decided to not only leave us without so much as a goodbye, but also fake your goddamn death on the way out. I’m sure that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that.” Venom drips from his lips, and Trevor can feel the shock wear off, feel the reality begin to sink in.

In front of him stands his mentor, his teacher, someone he considered a father. In front of him stands a dead man, a man who should be nothing more than the grave marker he helped erect. And for what? All that grieving, all those tears, just so Geoff can pull a 180 and shout ‘psyche’? So they can write this all off as one big prank and be done with it? Go back to the way things used to be? Lindsay cried for weeks on end. Meg refused to speak to anyone for two months. Alfredo literally worried himself sick over keeping his team safe in the field and was forcibly isolated himself while at home, and for what?

For nothing.

“Look, Trevor,” Geoff starts, but Trevor cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“Whatever you’re about to say, you don’t have to. You’ve already done enough.” The words cut deeper than Trevor intends, but he doesn’t care.

“Look, Trev, I’m sor—”

“Sorry!” Trevor barks out a laugh, sharp in the evening air. “Like ‘sorry’ is going to fix anything. Sorry won’t fix jack shit, Geoff, you know this better than anyone. You’re always the one who told me that saying sorry means nothing if you don’t prove it. And this is how you prove it? By sending me a cryptic letter, by asking me to meet in a dog park halfway across the planet? Yeah, seems real sorry to me.”

Geoff’s face hardens. “We didn’t have a choice. There were—”

“Like shit you didn’t have a choice!” And the façade is cracking now. His voice breaks, his vision wavers, his hands ball into fists, and he’s past the point of caring anymore. “You could have _chosen_ to stay! You could have _chosen_ to let us help! You could have _chosen_ not to let us all think you died! To let us mourn! What I don’t get,” he says, taking one, two, three steps closer until he’s face-to-face with Geoff, “is why you _chose_ to leave.”

Geoff’s mouth opens and closes, the words caught in his throat, and a hysteric sort of giggle bubbles out of Trevor’s mouth. “No answer now, huh? Cat got your silver tongue, or have you finally run out of excuses?”

“Hey, listen, I was just trying to protect y—”

“Protect us!?” Trevor’s hands fist in Geoff’s jacket, and he hates the way his voice warbles. “You _died_ , Geoff! You died seven months ago! You left us all behind, you abandoned me and the others, and you expect it to be fine!?”

The tears start to spill in earnest now, rolling down his cheeks until he can taste the salt. His arms don’t feel like his, his vision is foggy, and he’s tired. So tired. Months of mourning, of grieving, of missing his family have left him numb to anything but the sadness, the anger, and now it’s all spent. Trevor can do nothing but stand there, hands balled in Geoff’s coat, tears running down his face.

It’s hesitant, it’s slow, but Geoff’s hands reach up to Trevor’s shoulders, and soon Trevor is sobbing openly into Geoff’s shoulder, the older man holding the younger one tightly as they both cry. Geoff mumbles little “I’m sorry”s into Trevor’s ear, and Trevor almost lets himself believe it. He wants to so badly, wants to go back to the way things were, wants his father back.

“Why?” Trevor finally croaks out, his voice sore from screaming. He pulls away from the embrace, wiping his tears away. “I just wanna know why.” His energy is drained, his anger is gone, and Trevor feels mask of the Kingpin slip away until he’s just Trevor again. Scared, alone, desperate Trevor standing in front of the man he considers a father.

“It’s a long story,” Geoff says, wiping away his own tears.

Trevor gestures weakly back to where his car is waiting in the parking lot. “Well I’ve got some time and a heater,” he offers. Geoff simply nods, following Trevor back to the safety of the rental car.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

It’s a story that many people in Los Santos are familiar with: decades-long rivalries, petty turf wars turned into blood feuds, conspiracy and espionage that threaten to topple empires. And Geoff had been a part of the city’s criminal underground for most of his life, having made quite the number of enemies along the way.

Two years ago, Geoff had caught wind of a certain old rival who had it out for him and his crew. But not just anyone in his crew would satisfy this enemy; they were after him and his partners, all six members of the inner circle. To anyone else it would look like a power move, trying to cut off all six heads of the snake to render the Fakes powerless. But Geoff had known better: it was a personal vendetta, one that would only be resolved with blood. And, if this rival was going to have their way, there would be a lot of it.

Had it been ten years ago and had Geoff been ten years younger, it would have been no problem. But he’d gotten older, gotten complacent, and the two years since the challenge was issued had been hard-fought and barely-won. The letter about Ray had been the tipping point; if the infamous Brownman could be brought down, it was only a matter of time before the other followed suit. And with the rival hot on their heels, that moment was more likely to come sooner rather than later.

He’d wanted to tell Trevor and the others, wanted to loop them in on the plan. But this rival was cunning and knew about all of their tricks seemingly before they’d even pulled them off. Secrecy was of the utmost importance if everyone, including the B Team, was to make it out alive. They could be looped in later, but “killing” the Fakes was the top priority.

It had been hell, watching Trevor and his crew mourn for those long months. It had been torture watching them think they were burying a friend, a member of the family. But it had been a necessary sacrifice, an evil they couldn’t do without.

And now the time has come to correct that mistake.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

It takes the better part of two hours before the story is told. It’s mostly thanks to Trevor interrupting here and there, as well as Geoff getting side-tracked in the retelling, but at the end of it, Geoff breathes a sigh of relief. There are deep circles still under his eyes and his cheeks are still a bit gaunt, but the tension from his shoulders seems to slip away as he fixed Trevor with a look that can only be read as _hopeful_. A wordless question, begging Trevor to understand, to forgive.

Trevor leans back for a moment, huffing out a sigh of his own. Before this, everything had been straight forward, simple. Not good by any stretch, but uncomplicated at least. And now, the situation was neither of those things. A small part of him, an angry, bitter part, wants to hold onto the hate welling up in his chest. The feeling of heartbreak, of grief still unresolved, of absolute betrayal. He wants to take all of that, everything he’s had to go through, hell, everything _his team_ has had to go through, and throw it all back in Geoff’s face.

But then he looks at the man. The same man who took Trevor off the streets when no one else would give him the time of day. The same man who taught him how to hold a gun, how to throw a punch, how to take a hit. The same man who shaped Trevor into the person he is now, the one who gave him not only a family to come home to but a home to begin with.

This man, Geoff, who, despite making what Trevor may consider to be the most selfish decision he’s ever heard, made it on their behalf.

And yeah, Trevor’s mad. He’s upset, furious at the idea that this family could lie to his face and think it’s okay. But, on the other hand, he understands why they had to do it. Protecting the ones he loves has always been Trevor’s main goal, and risking everything for the people who love you…it’s something he can understand.

Trevor sighs again, rubbing a hand down his face, and damn that jetlag is kicking his butt right now. “It won’t be easy telling the others.”

Geoff relaxes, a nervous sort of smile working its way onto his face. “Yeah, I can’t imagine it being simple. We’re planning on telling everyone back in the states eventually, but it’ll take some time.”

“Why me?” Trevor asks, and Geoff cocks his head a bit in confusion. “Why’d you tell me first? Not that I’m not glad, but…you know…why? Why not Matt, or Barbara?”

“Wasn’t even a choice,” Geoff says, and the answer is so instant that Trevor is a bit taken aback. “You’re the head of the Fakes now, if I told you and you thought it would be a bad idea to tell everyone else, we wouldn’t have. Besides, we trust you a lot more than you know. You’ve been through a lot, Trev, you’re a damn good leader. I trust your judgement.”

Trevor isn’t sure if it’s pride or not swelling in his chest, but he lets the smile slide onto his face all the same. “You know Meg’s probably going to kill you,” he says after a moment.

Geoff rubs the back of his neck, a nervous laugh falling form his lips. “Yeah, I kinda figured.”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it,” Trevor says, clapping Geoff on the shoulder.

“Sounds good to me,” Geoff replies, putting a hand on Trevor’s arm, grinning more widely than Trevor’s seen a very long time.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Trevor’s known Lindsay, Meg, and Alfredo for years. They’ve gone on countless jobs, shared countless secrets, each been there for the other when the world stood against them. Trevor know that given a thousand opportunities, a thousand lifetimes, he would never trade any member of this team. He trusts them with his very life, and knows for a fact that they feel the same.

But still, in this moment, he’s terrified of them.

Alfredo sits beside Trevor, both hands shoved up against the car’s dashboard heater as he shivers. Coming from the more heated areas of the west coast, Alfredo isn’t exactly used to Alp-like climates, and though Trevor thinks two jackets and a scarf is a little overboard, he couldn’t talk Alfredo out of the ridiculous getup if he tried. Meg lounges in the back seat, idly flipping through her phone as she cards her fingers through Lindsay’s hair, the blond woman snoring loudly as she lays splayed against the brunette.

He knows them all almost better than he knows himself, knows that they trust him implicitly. Still, he can’t fight off the ball of anxiety in his stomach, the notion that maybe this is a bad idea.

“So you wanna tell us why we’re here?” Alfredo asks, eyeing Trevor out of the corner of his eye, and there’s no avoiding the subject anymore.

“Yeah, you didn’t really give us a lot of warning,” Meg accuses, not looking up from her phone.

Trevor takes a breath; he’d been expecting this. He hadn’t taken the time to explain the letter to the crew before taking off in a rush to Switzerland just a few short days ago. Of course, it had been equally as confusing when he’d insisted Meg, Lindsay, and Alfredo accompany him on a spontaneous voyage across the world at a moment’s notice, but they’d still trusted him. Steffi had only been slightly irritated when he’d asked her to keep an eye on everything for a few days, agreeing only when Trevor had promised her a brand new car. It’ll probably buy them a week or two before she insists they come back; Trevor just hopes that’s enough time.

He runs a hand down his face, sighing heavily as the road takes a sharp turn right. “Meg, you might wanna wake Lindsay up. You all need to hear this.”

Meg eyes Trevor suspiciously, but still reaches over to shake Lindsay gently. The other woman snorts in surprise, rubbing at her eyes and yawning. “What’s going on? We there yet?” Lindsay mutters, huddling further into Meg’s side for warmth.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you guys about.” Trevor pauses for a moment, checking the GPS before turning onto a side-road, the car lurching from side to side on the uneven dirt path. “I’m sure you’re all curious about why we’re in the Swiss Alps.”

“You could say that,” Alfredo mutter, shoving his hands closer to the heater.

“Well, you all know that I got a letter the other week.”

“And that was reason enough to haul our asses halfway across the planet?” Meg gripes, rubbing Lindsay’s arms soothingly.

“Seeing as Geoff wrote the letter, yes.”

The stunned silence in the car is deafening, and he can feel three pairs of eyes boring holes into his skull in shock. Meg’s mouth is hanging open, Alfredo’s eyes are wide as saucers, and Lindsay is sitting straight up, her back stiff and her mouth set grimly.

“That’s…not possible,” Meg says, and Trevor has to avoid looking at her directly in the rear-view mirror.

“Trev, are you…okay?” Alfredo asks, putting a hand gently on Trevor’s shoulder, his gaze laden with concern. “There’s no way Geoff could have written that. He died seven months ago, remember?”

“Look, I was just as confused when I read it. But it’s his handwriting, no doubt.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, tossing the letter to Alfredo. The younger man scans the page, his eyes flicking between the page and Trevor’s face. Lindsay snatches the paper from Alfredo’s hands after a moment, and Meg scans the words desperately over her shoulder.

“It’s just…coordinates. It’s not exactly the map to El Dorado,” Lindsay said, a bit of skepticism leaking into her tone.

“Wait, is that why you disappeared for a few days? You were following this—this wild goose chase?” Meg snaps, waving the paper in the air in irritation, her voice sharp and accusing, but Trevor can notices her bite her lip, her eyes darting back and forth. Meg is more of a realist than anything, and even now Trevor can see her trying to quash the rising hope.

“Actually, yes,” and Trevor’s almost impressed that his voice is so calm. The road ahead of him evens out, the dot on the GPS gets ever closer, and there’s three more miles. Just three more miles, and the trust Trevor’s team has in him will be tested. After all, Trevor’s the leader of sorts, and his decision to trust the former Fakes, to actually forgive them after everything, will probably have some mixed reactions at best. But it’s too late to turn back now. As the cottage looms into view, the only thing he can do now is just cross his fingers and hope for the best.

The GPS beeps in triumph, announcing their arrival, and honestly Trevor doesn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe a parade, a tearful reunion, something to that effect knowing the former Fakes’ penchant for the dramatic.

Instead, it’s just Geoff sitting on the porch, a mug of coffee in his hands, the steam swirling around his moustache and stubble too long to be called stubble anymore. He’s bundled up in a coat, but a pair of bunny slippers peek out from underneath his pajama pants. He seems unperturbed by the arrival of his new guests, merely raising the mug in greetings before turning and shouting something towards the interior of the house.

“What’s going on?” The voice is small, soft, scared. Lindsay puts a hand on Trevor’s shoulder, and he can see the tears in her eyes. He glances back at Meg, something hopeful and at the same time furious in her eyes. Alfredo’s mouth is open in shock, the words almost stuck in his throat. And, honestly, this is probably the best reaction that Trevor could have hoped for.

“There’s something you need to know,” is all Trevor says, opening the car door and stepping out into the snow.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

It takes nearly three hours to get the whole story out, this time due to Meg’s impatient interruptions and Lindsay’s frantic questions. Geoff takes his time addressing both, seemingly just relieved that they’re even sitting at the dining table having this conversation. And, if Trevor is being honest, he’s surprised at how well his team is handling the news. It had taken nearly fifteen straight minutes to get Meg to stop screaming and kicking, and he’s pretty sure Gavin is going to be nursing a bruised jaw for at least a week. Lindsay had merely stood there wordlessly for a good long while, eventually breaking down into both crying and berating the former Fakes in turn. And Alfredo had merely flung his hands in the air, proclaimed “Fuck this shit!” and tried to trek his way back to the main road on his own. Trevor had needed to collect him halfway down the driveway. Even now, listening to the story, he’s largely quiet, glancing at the others around the room as if they will disappear any moment. Trevor’s just glad that they’ve stayed this long; it had taken a lot of restraint to let Geoff explain himself the first time, and their tempers are tend to be much more volatile than his.

“So…yeah,” Geoff says at the end, shrugging with all the nonchalance in the world. “That’s how it all shook out. Sorry for not telling you guys sooner; it was really shitty, but it was the best way to keep everyone safe.” Meg snorts derisively, folding her arms and leaning back, but no one seems to pay her any mind. They probably all expected her to either cuss them all out or simply walk away; the fact that she’s even here is a miracle. Lindsay puts a comforting hand on Meg’s arm, although Trevor doesn’t miss her gnawing at her lip.

When Meg stands up suddenly, stalking towards the front door with her hands balled at her sides, Trevor’s not really surprised. Hell, he’s impressed she’s managed to stay sitting for so long. Lindsay follows soon after, glancing between her girlfriend’s retreating form and the former Fakes before following Meg outside. Alfredo merely sits next to Trevor, but his back is too rigid, his eyes too wide.

“If you’ll excuse us, I think we all need some air,” Trevor says, his voice much calmer than he feels as he grasps Alfredo’s hand, leading him away from the table. He sees Gavin start to reach out, whether to comfort or stop them Trevor can’t tell, but Ryan puts a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

When Trevor and Alfredo step onto the porch, Lindsay and Meg don’t even look up. Meg is curled into herself, arms wrapped around her torso as Lindsay rubs soothing circles into her back. Lindsay looks so much wearier in the afternoon light, the bags underneath her eyes so much heavier than they had been that morning. Even Alfredo is unsettlingly still, his eyes fixed on the mountains in the distance, the life gone from his face.

Trevor leads Alfredo to the bench where the others sit, taking a seat next to Lindsay. The afternoon is starting to fade from the sky, but the air isn’t so cold as to be unpleasant. The hills are starting to lose their green colour, and Trevor can begin to see why they chose this place to escape to. It’s beautiful, secluded, and there’s enough room for them to do pretty much anything they want without being disturbed. It’s quite the place to escape to.

“I’m not dreaming, am I?” Alfredo asks, and his large brown eyes are still fixed to a point in the distance. His hands are shaking in Trevor’s, and Trevor gives them a little squeeze.

“Not quite,” Trevor responds.

“Seven months.” Meg’s voice is quiet but filled with poison. “They left us for seven months. We thought they were dead seven fucking months, and now everything is supposed to be fucking dandy.”

“You heard them, Meg,” Trevor interrupts, and three heads whip around to stare at him. “They were just trying to do the best they could. It sucks, yeah. But they’re fixing it now.”

“How can you be so calm?” Lindsay asks, her words tinged with hysteria. “They lied to you, to all of us, and you’re just okay with it all?”

“I’m not okay with it. Not by a long shot. But I get where they’re coming from.”

“That sounds an awful lot like you’re taking they’re side,” Meg snaps, shooting upright and whirling around to face Trevor. “How could possibly think that what they did was the right thing!?”

“Because I’d do the same thing for all of you.”

Meg’s mouth open as if to respond, but she merely tips her head in confusion. “Think about it. They were in the middle of a fight they couldn’t win, at least not with them all surviving at the end. And if it were me, and I had to choose between winning a fight and keeping all of you alive, you bet your ass I’d do what I had to to make sure you survived.” He squeezes Alfredo’s hand harder, and Alfredo puts his other hand on Trevor’s shoulder.

Lindsay sputters for a moment, shaking herself. “But they—”

“What they did was shitty,” Trevor interrupts, putting his spare hand on Lindsay’s arm. “And if you don’t want to forgive them for it, I won’t blame you. But you all heard the same story I did, and I can’t fault them for trying to protect the ones they love. I mean, that would just be hypocritical of me.” He smiles wryly at the three of them, holding in a sigh of relief when Lindsay’s eyes lose a bit of the steeliness in them, when Meg relaxes her shoulders just a touch.

“Yeah, but they were still idiots to hide this from us,” Lindsay mumbles.

“No one’s debating that,” Trevor replies with a grin.

“And I’m still angry,” Meg snaps.

“That’s to be expected. And I’m not saying that anyone has to forgive them right this instant. But maybe you can all think about it?”

A silence hangs over the group, and for a moment Trevor isn’t sure whether this was a good idea or not. Perhaps it would have been easier for all of them to have stayed ignorant of the truth, for them all to believe that their family had all died so they could just move on. Heaven knows it would have been the simpler solution; staying in Los Santos, safe in their penthouse and only worrying about the day’s business like normal, suddenly seems a lot more appealing than sitting tense on a porch in the mountains.

But suddenly, Meg stalks back towards the door, throwing it open and stomping inside. Her heavy footfalls can be heard retreating back into the house for a tense moment before voices filter out, hers sharp and the others subdued. Lindsay’s eyes dart from the door to Trevor and back, and she gnaws once more at her lip before following Meg inside. Trevor can actually hear her hug someone, and judging by the resounding ‘oof’ that comes out of them, she isn’t letting go any time soon.

Trevor peers back at Alfredo, the younger man still firmly on the bench, one hands still clasped in Trevor’s and the other picking splinters out of the wood. And, for a moment, Trevor wonders if he misplaced his worry. He’s been most concerned about Meg, what with her propensity to resort to anger. He had been certain that either she or Lindsay, kind-hearted Lindsay who got attached so quick and got hurt just as easily, would be the one to keep an eye one during this whole ordeal.

But now, looking at Alfredo, Trevor isn’t so sure. Yes, Meg and Lindsay had taken the Fakes’ deaths hard. Meg had refused to do anything besides scowl and kill for weeks, and Lindsay hadn’t dared to smile or laugh until after Meg had calmed down. But Alfredo’s grief had broken Trevor heart, mostly because he hadn’t seen it. The light had been sucked from Alfredo’s eyes, and the time he hadn’t spent locked in his room, grieving in private, had been tense to say the least. Alfredo had run himself ragged in the field, desperate to make sure that none of his team got hurt. He’d gotten into more scrapes in that time than he had during the rest of his criminal career, and the entire time he had insisted on patching himself up, never coming to the other for help, never letting them see his hurt. As hard as Trevor had taken the news of the Fakes’ deaths, Alfredo’s withdrawal had hurt him the most. It had taken a couple solid months to get Alfredo to open back up, and suddenly the idea that Alfredo may disappear again sends a spike of panic into his gut.

“Are you okay?” Trevor asks, bringing one hand up to cup Alfredo’s cheek.

Alfredo doesn’t react for a moment, still as stone, and Trevor is about to pull back when Alfredo turns his head, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“You sure?”

A beat of silence, a deep breath. “I mean, I’m as okay as I can be right now. But I’ll get there.”

Something heavy slides off of Trevor’s shoulders, and he grabs Alfredo by the shoulders, pressing their lips firmly together. The kiss lasts for just a second before Trevor pulls away, his grin mirroring his partner’s.

“Yeah, we will,” Trevor responds, grasping Alfredo’s hand and tugging him back towards the door and stepping inside.

Inside the cabin, Trevor can see Meg, her arms gesturing wildly as she lectures Geoff and Jack, Geoff silent in the face of her ire and Jack with a bit of a bemused grin on her face. Lindsay has one arm around Ryan and the other around Michael, and Trevor can’t tell from this distance if she’s crying to trying to talk their ears off, but they don’t seem to mind either way. Alfredo lets go of Trevor’s hand, making his way towards Gavin and Jeremy, and both men’s faces light up when they see him approach.

Trevor simply leans against the wall, appreciating the view. He isn’t sure if things will be totally okay after this; if Meg’s goodwill will extend past this one meeting, or if Alfredo’s hesitance towards people he once called family will ever dissipate, or if Lindsay will be able to fully trust any of the original six. But, as he listens to the idle chatter, watching both of his family reunite, Trevor is certain of one thing.

Everything is okay right now.

And that’s all that really matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time someone commented that the first chapter made them cry, I just wanted to assure them that I can't write stories with sad endings. I'm physically incapable. So here you go! Something less-sad! Next and final chapter is already finished, just needs some tweaking and should be up next week. Feel free to come scream with me at my tumblr, @the-million-mile-mountain! Enjoy!


	3. The Ones We Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take a look into the past in order to see how this all started.

_A Year and A Half Ago…_

 

Ray Narvaez Jr. is the first to die.

The letter is brief, the return address from somewhere in the Midwest, the scrawl clearly not Ray’s loopy script but rather the formal staccato of a mutual contact. Geoff almost doesn’t open it. He doesn’t know what’s holding him back; it could be the fact that he hasn’t heard from Ray in a couple years, it could be the fact that he’s in the middle of a not-so-small turf war and really can’t afford the distractions. But he still slides the envelope open, and sorely wishes he hadn’t.

It was a lucky shot. Ray had been sniping for an up-and-coming gang halfway across the country, some group of thugs who wanted the Brownman’s reputation behind them. The rival gang had had a sharpshooter on their side, and no one noticed Ray’s com go silent until it was too late.

Geoff wants to cry. He’d been close to Ray; they all had. Ray had been there at the beginning of it all, comforting and protecting them since they’d first started out. Sure, the younger man had set out for a career of his own near ten years ago, but a bond like that just doesn’t disappear, even with thousands of miles in between them. He wants to cry, wants to mourn, wants to scream and shout and throw things because of everyone that deserved to die, it wasn’t Ray.

But he can’t.

Because, as he peers around the room at his team, his family, all he can feel is fear. Geoff watches as Michael, Jeremy, and Gavin wrestle on the floor, the British man squawking as the other two gang up on him. Jack and Ryan are laughing at the display from the couch, Jack egging them on and Ryan cautioning them to avoid the coffee table. None of them are as young as they once were, each with more gray hair than any of them would like to admit. Sure, they may act like over-caffeinated toddlers, but even Geoff had been surprised when he’d made it to fifty.

Which makes their current situation all that more dangerous. They’re not as young as they used to be, far from it, and some aspiring crews have filtered into the city in the past few years, eyeing the Fakes as an old dog trying to keep its territory. It had been easy to handle at first, a simple matter of quashing rebellions when they popped up and paying off a few of the more stubborn crews when brute force didn’t work. But recently, some of the smaller gangs have banded together, forming a coalition that has come dangerously close to toppling Geoff’s empire in the past few months. Near the beginning, Geoff had been sure it would only be a matter of time before the Fakes came out on top just like always.

Now, he isn’t so sure.

With the letter clutched in his hand, his gaze flitting over each of his partners, he suddenly knows that they can’t end. Not like Ray did.

The plan takes a couple weeks to come up with. It takes him a week longer to pitch it to the crew. The heat on the Fakes had gotten a little unbearable in the past couple months, what with multiple gangs starting to infringe on their territory. Apparently a few rumors had started to circulate, something about how that gang is past their prime. Something like this just couldn’t be outrun; if they ran, the criminals in this city would no doubt chase them down, ensuring that they would not again rise to power. Faking their deaths is the only way, Geoff knows this.

A small cottage in the Alps will do just fine. It’s out of the way, in politically neutral territory, and Jack had made Geoff promise to take her to Europe on a trip that didn’t involve business. They’d each fake their deaths separately; it’s easier to slip away one at a time instead of in a large group. There would have to be no contact between those at the cottage and those back in Los Santos; there’s no way in hell Geoff would risk his rivals uncovering their sanctuary. He would be among the last to go. He’s been in this city since he was born, there’s no way he’s leaving it until he absolutely has to.

The others aren’t so fast to adopt the plan at first. Jack is a bit concerned, unsure as to why the Kingpin of the city is so ready to up and leave so quickly. Ryan insists that he’s more than capable of handling the encroaching crews, ensuring Geoff that he’s still more than capable despite nursing a pulled muscle in his shoulder from last week. The lads are more confused than anything.

It isn’t until Geoff shows them the letter that every snaps into place. Suddenly, with the death of their friend, their own mortality, and that of their lovers, suddenly feels so much more real. He can see it in their faces as they look around the table at one another; the weight of Ray’s death is much more than just that. Before this moment, they’d been practically invincible, ruling over this city for longer than most others in their line of work. But now, it feels like that can disappear at any second, like the world can be yanked out from under them at a second’s notice.

Gavin is the first to agree to the plan, Michael right behind him. Geoff doesn’t miss how tightly their hands are interlinked. Jack and Jeremy agree next, only a little hesitant, and Jack’s hands rubs gentle circles into the back of Geoff’s shoulder. Ryan opens his mouth as if to protest, and Geoff can see the stubbornness in his eyes rearing its head, but Gavin places a hand on his arm, whispers something into his ear, and his resolve crumbles.

Geoff nods decisively. The plans are finalized in the following weeks, with input from the other Fakes and a few generous bribes donated to some of the more influential cops on their payroll to make things run a little smoother. For a brief moment, Geoff considers telling the B Team about the plan, but quickly decides against it. This is a risky plan; any number of things could go wrong, from miscalculations during their faked deaths to rival gangs catching wind of their plans. It’s simply too dangerous for Trevor and his crew to know what’s going on, especially with the generous target painted on the Fakes’ backs. The B Team is young, they’re motivated, and they’re clever enough to evade Geoff’s enemies. Besides, it’s Geoff and his main circle that the criminals are after; Trevor and the others will be fine, Geoff is sure of it. The safest bet is to go through with the plan and fill the others in when the time is right. Trevor will just have to take over in the meantime; his fast wit and silver tongue (combined with Lindsay’s affinity for explosives and the combined forces of Meg and Alfredo) will be more than enough to keep their enemies at bay.

But for now, until the plan is set in motion, Geoff spends his spare time reviewing and reworking the plans, staying up until the early hours of the morning to make sure that this will work. Everything is on the line; his life, his lovers’ lives, their very future together. He sets pencil to paper yet again, triple-checking the schematics for Jeremy’s stunt car even as his eyes begin to blur. What happened to Ray won’t happen to Jeremy, or Gavin, or Ryan. It won’t happen to any of them.

Geoff will make sure of that.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

The car is burning and the sirens around him are deafening and his shoulder _hurts_ , but Jeremy still runs.

There’s something that Jeremy hates about plans. When something is planned, be it a weapons deal or a robbery or a heist, everything has to run smoothly. There’s no room for error, or else someone gets hurts, gets caught, or gets dead. When there’s wiggle room in the plan, leeway for shit to hit the fan, improvising gets a whole hell of a lot easier, and flying by the seat of your pants has always been easier for him. Reacting instead of planning, it’s what he’s good at.

But now, there’s no room for error. He sprints down the dirt path, stumbling through the waist-tall weeds, limping slightly and trying to keep his left shoulder as still as possible. Intentionally crashing the car had seemed like an easy enough plan at the beginning, seeing as they managed to roll their cars and survive on accident enough times. And with Sergeant Burns and Lieutenant Sorola on their side holding the police back, it should have been a piece of cake. But he’d been going a little too fast, hit that mound of dirt a little too hard, and he had barely been able to roll out in time before the car had launched across the field, the engine already ablaze. Still, he’s pretty lucky to be walking at all, and makes it to the getaway vehicle in just a few minutes, sliding into the driver’s seat with a relieved sigh.

It takes a minute before his breathing slows, his heart retreating from his throat and back into his chest, and he pulls a phone from his pocket, silently thanking any god listening that it isn’t too badly damaged. The screen is a bit cracked, but it starts up just fine. He dials in Geoff’s number easily, the number second nature by now, and lifts it to his ear.

It barely gets the chance to rings before Geoff picks up, his voice laced with concern.

“Are you okay?”

A grin tugs at Jeremy’s lips, and he sinks back into the fake leather of the driver’s seat. “Yeah, I’m alive. I made it to the getaway vehicle, the cops have no idea.”

Geoff releases a breath, and he can hear four others do the same over the call.

“You guys gonna be all right?” he asks, and the gnawing feeling that’s rested in his gut for weeks makes a fierce comeback. He remembers earlier that afternoon, when he’d held each of his partners in turn, and it hadn’t felt like the last time then, the last time he’d be able to hear their voices for at least a few months.

It feels like that now.

“We’ll be fine, you know us,” Michael says, and Jeremy chuckles. “Nothing’s gonna keep us down.”

“You make sure,” Jeremy says, and oh god what he wouldn’t give to have Michael in front of him one more time.

“You know the plan,” Jack says over the phone, and how he hates that word right now, “you ditch the phone, get to the airport, and get to the cottage. Gavin will meet you there in a little while. No contacting us until we join you. Got it?”

“Yes mom,” Jeremy teases, but suddenly there’s a lump in his throat and the phone feels like a brick in his hand and he desperately doesn’t want to put it down.

“You’d better get going,” and Jeremy knows that Ryan is right, judging by the sounds of the sirens out his window. They’re still far off, but a little close for comfort.

“I love you guys.” Maybe once upon a time he’d be hesitant to say those words, but after decades with his partners, the words are second nature, and Jeremy gets the feeling he could say them all night and still want to say them more.

“We love you too,” all five of them chorus, and Jeremy has to hang up before the tears start falling. He tosses the burner phone out the window, his hands going back to the steering wheel and clutching at it so hard his knuckles turn white. He grits his teeth, peers back at the police surrounding the burning remnants of the Rimmy-mobile, and peels out onto the highway, heading straight for the airport.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Jeremy arrives at the cottage in the early morning, a small snow storm already in progress. He pulls the car into the drive, bone weary and ready for an actual bed to sleep in. It’s been an ordeal getting to the Alps, and after several days of catching naps in airports and taxi cabs he’s just about ready to collapse.

Jeremy drags his one suitcase up to the front door, digging out the key and stumbling into the cottage entrance. Well, it’s only really a cottage in name. It’s a couple stories tall, more like a small log mansion in the middle of the Swiss Alps than anything else. Still, it’s a far cry from the penthouse in all its expensive glory back in Los Santos. And, as Jeremy slumps inside, yanking his hat off his head and shrugging off his coat, he can’t help but feel…small. The thunk his suitcase makes as he tosses it in the corner echoes around the entrance, and that, Jeremy decides, just won’t do.

It’s a mere matter of minutes before he’s figured out the sound system in the living room, and he puts on rap, country, basically anything on his phone that he fancies at the moment. His baggage sits abandoned in the entryway as he busies himself with little things: making a sandwich with the foreignly-labelled cheeses from the fridge, making sure the large bed in the main bedroom is made properly, scanning the shelves for a movie to watch.

Jeremy’s never been one to suffer in silence; he’d much rather suffer with some sort of background noise. Which is exactly how he finds himself half-watching a cheesy foreign action film, taking small bites of his sandwich, and desperately trying not to think about how the couch he’s sitting on is perfectly suited for six people. About how the bed upstairs is far too big for just one, or even three, occupants. About how his every breath seems to echo off the empty walls.

For the past couple decades, Jeremy’s life has been nothing but excitement, heists, robberies and gang rivalries. And while those things aren’t particularly safe or sane, it had added a certain spark to his life. Rimmy Tim, the infamous gangster known for his brash attitude and garish sense of style, had thrived on adrenaline and gunpowder, constantly chasing that next high. But, as years had passed, he found himself valuing the sound of Ryan’s laughter over the sounds of explosives, liking the feeling of Gavin’s hand in his instead of the feeling of concrete pounding under his feet.

After so long of being surrounded by laughter and life in the penthouse, the empty cottage almost seems to swallow him. He turns the volume up on the movie, watching as one of the cars flips end over end on the salt flats, the engine spitting angry fire by the time it rolls to a stop.

When the memories of his crash start to become too vivid, he has to turn off the TV.

Jeremy hauls himself off the couch, leaving his half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table and half of the lights on. Maybe it’s because he’s trying to convince himself he’s not really alone in the house, that the others aren’t half a world away, and maybe it’s just because he’s too lazy to walk to the light switches, but Jeremy doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, with half the house still illuminated, Jeremy makes his way to the second floor, not even bother to change out of his clothes before pouring himself into bed.

Geoff, Jack, and Gavin had spared no expense when furnishing the house, and Jeremy could certainly tell as he crawled under the covers. The mattress feels like a bed of clouds, and the comforter is just as soft. Still, as Jeremy stretches out on the bed, taking up as much space as he can with his short stature, he can’t help but miss the familiar warmth of his partners surrounding him. He reaches out, clutching pillows to him desperately, and briefly hopes that the next couple months will pass quickly before he drifts off to sleep.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Gavin is halfway up the coast by the time they deploy the search teams.

The wind whips against his face, plastering his dripping hair to his already-pale face, but Gavin just hunches his shoulders against the sheets of rain, gripping the boat’s steering wheel a little tighter. The coast is just in sight, a little hazy in the rain, and Gavin has to keep ducking into the darkness to avoid being seen by stray police patrols and the odd caravan of tourists. Hopefully there won’t be so many damn tourists in Switzerland.

The thought passes in an instant, but it still makes Gavin’s heart clench. Even as he maneuvers the speedboat up the coast, the waves pounding against the cliffside, it still doesn’t feel real. Sure, the cold seeping into his bones and the wind against his cheeks feels real enough, but they’ve all been talking about this for so long that it’s almost impossible to believe he’s in the middle of it. Jeremy’s already gone off the grid, and they’d all felt the other man’s absence, Ryan and Michael most of all. Gavin had been able to almost laugh it off, sure that they’d all be reunited in a few months, safe and sound in the Alps. Just like they’d planned.

But suddenly, standing in the boat and just minutes away from completing his part of the plan, those few months are starting to feel a lot farther off than before.

The sound of the motor echoes off of the cliffs as Gavin pulls up a little alcove, nothing more than a small patch of sand with a small dirt road leading back up to the highway. Sitting in the clearing, a bit dingy and a littler worse for ware, is a small car. The paint job is peeling and he isn’t exactly sure how it still has all four wheels still, but it’ll do. Gavin had pleaded with Geoff to give him something fancy, something modern to take his last drive in, but the boss had merely reminded him that something garish would only draw attention. Still, while the beaten up van is no high-performance racing vehicle, it’ll get him to the airport in one piece, so he supposes that it isn’t that bad.

Gavin pulls the boat up to the beach, his boots hitting the wet sand with a dull thud, the rain pounding around him. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, tossing the keys to the boat into the front seat and giving the hull a little push with his foot. He stands back, watching the boat bob out in the tide, knowing that it will wash up somewhere down the beach come dawn. Or it’ll be dragged out to sea, never to be seen again. Either way, Gavin has no further need for it. It’s not like he’ll ever be returning to this city. A sudden fear seizes his heart as he makes his way to the van, digging the car keys out of the backpack.

The key sticks in the lock for a moment, but Gavin manages to wrestle the door open and slides in gratefully, the cold suddenly setting into his bones. He immediately reaches for the heater, sighing with relief as the cab is flooded with a rush of warm air. The salt water seems to have seeped into his bones, his whole body wracked with shivers as he waits for the car to warm up, the rain pounding on the roof in sheets.

Gavin nearly jumps out of his skin as a cheerful little tune echoes through the space, and he scrambles for the burner phone in the backpack. He reaches it on the third ring, lifting it to his ear with numb fingers.

“—dammit, pick up the phone you—”

“Geoff,” Gavin breathes, and he can hear the older man gasp.

“Gavin! You prick! You asshole! You mingy little—”

The connection goes to static for a beat as someone else snatches the phone, and Michael’s voice filter through the speaker, tinny and far-away, but it still makes Gavin’s heart clench. “Gavin, are you okay, boi!?”

“I’m f-fine, Micoo, d-don’t worry,” Gavin says, and he desperately hopes that Michael can’t hear his teeth chattering.

“Good. Then why didn’t you fucking call us like you were supposed to!?”

Gavin flinches a bit, pulling the phone away from his face for a moment. “I j-just got to the car, the b-b-boat trip took a little longer than I th-thought.”

Gavin hears static again, and this time Jack’s and Ryan’s voice layer over each other. “Did you make it okay?” Ryan asks just as Jack says “I didn’t know there would be a storm tonight, are you warm enough?”

“J-just a little cold, I’ll be f-fine, promise,” Gavin says, and he can hear small sighs of relief form the other end. In any other case, Gavin may be a little offended that his partners think him so incompetent. True, he may be clumsy and even a little forgetful at times, but the Golden Boy is just as capable as any of the others, a fact he’s proven over and over again in years past. Still, as he sits in the beat-up van and tries to turn every dashboard heaters towards him, his partners’ concern is almost comforting, a reminder of everything he has. Everything he’s going to have if—when—this plan succeeds.

“We’re watching the news story now,” Geoff says, voice a little too tight. “It doesn’t look like they’re searching very hard for you. Gus and Burnie are slowing them down just in case, but you might wanna get going.”

Gavin’s heart sinks for a moment; after months of planning and preparing, it’s all just setting in: Gavin will be without the majority of his partners for the next several weeks. He’ll be all alone until he gets to Switzerland. He won’t see Ryan or Michael or Jack or Geoff until the summer, and suddenly the weeks between now and then seem to stretch too far.

“You okay, boi?” Michael asks after a beat of silence, and he desperately wants to say no. Wants to say that they should just bring Jeremy back, that they should all just live their lives like they always have, consequences be damned. But Ray swims to the front of his mind, the letter that Geoff had gotten, the funeral they’d attended, and he knows that backing out now isn’t an option. Not if he wants to keeps his lovers alive.

“I’m all right,” Gavin says instead. “I love you all.”

“We love you too,” four voices chorus back at him, and Gavin slowly pulls out onto the highway, the airport lights hazy in the distance.

“You stay safe, okay? We’ll see you in a few weeks,” Ryan says, and Gavin can hear the tears in his voice.

“I’ll be waiting,” Gavin replies, a lump rising in his throat and the backs of his eyes burning.

The line goes dead as Gavin ends the call, snapping the burner phone in half and tossing it out the window. He loses sight of it as it tumbles through the darkness, and his hands tighten on the wheel. He knows what he has to do, what’s waiting for him at the end of all this. Still, the weight in his stomach doesn’t lessen any as he winds his way to the airport, the rain coming down in sheets around him.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

By the time Gavin pulls up the cottage, he can barely keep his eyes open.

It’s only noon here, the sun high in the cloudless sky, but he knows it’s nearly three in the morning back in Los Santos, and his body is certainly feeling the difference. The only thing that’s been keeping him awake is a mixture of energy drinks and the robotic voice the GPS, and he’s fairly certain that that won’t be effective for very much longer.

Gavin throws the car in park, seriously contemplating taking a quick nap in the driveway, but he quickly scraps that idea when he catches a glimpse of Jeremy through the second-story window. The shorter man is in nothing but jeans and a white tank top, but it’s one of the most beautiful things Gavin’s ever seen. He’d known that the separation would be hard; it had been a fact they’d all accepted when they’d agreed to the plan. Still, the sight of Jeremy after so long apart sets Gavin’s heart to racing, and all thoughts of fatigue are gone.

Gavin can see the moment that Jeremy catches sight of his car. A flicker of surprise crosses his face before he smiles widely, something even Gavin can see from the ground. Jeremy disappears from the window in an instant, and Gavin has only managed to lever himself out of the driver’s seat when Jeremy comes barreling out the front door, crashing into Gavin and sending them both sprawling. They land on the ground with a soft ‘oof’, Jeremy sprawled on top of Gavin’s torso.

“Hey Lil’ J,” Gavin says, his voice wheezy from getting the wind knocked out of him, but he can’t bring himself to care. He simply loops his arms around Jeremy’s shoulders, letting the younger man’s warmth seep into him.

“Hey Gav,” Jeremy mumbles after a long moment, pulling his head up to look Gavin in the eye. Jeremy’s eyes are brimming with tears and his beard is a little more unkempt than normal, but Gavin’s never been more in love. Gavin shuffles back a bit, struggling to sit up before properly grabbing onto Jeremy, smashing their lips together. The kiss tastes like tears and Red Bull, but neither Gavin nor Jeremy seems to mind much, Gavin’s hands cupping Jeremy’s cheeks as Jeremy’s hands settle on Gavin’s waist.

They break away after a minute, both panting and red in the cheeks, both wearing matching grins that stretch from ear to ear. Gavin lets himself slump forward, head resting on Jeremy’s sturdy shoulder as the fatigue from the last several days catches up to him in a vengeance. He’d hardly gotten sleep on any of his planes, too anxious about his partners back in the city to catch much sleep, too excited about being reunited with Jeremy to stay in one place for too long.

“Woah, you okay, man?” Jeremy asks, bringing his hands to Gavin’s shoulders to steady him.

“Yeah, ‘m fine, just a little tired is all.”

Jeremy pulls Gavin away for a second, his chocolate eyes searching Gavin’s green ones, and Gavin isn’t sure what he sees there. Probably the wrinkles around his eyes, deep with anxiety and lack of sleep. Gavin knows that this whole production with faking their deaths has given him more than a few gray hairs, and he’s almost certain that the bags under his eyes have gotten much deeper in the recent weeks. Jeremy rubs a thumb across Gavin’s cheek, slow and soothing, and Gavin finds himself leaning into the touch, his eyes closing on instinct.

“Well we can fix that no problem,” Jeremy says, looping one arm underneath Gavin’s legs and hooking the other behind his back. Gavin squawks as Jeremy hoists him off the ground, carrying him bridal-style towards the cottage.

“Wot’re you doing!?” Gavin shrieks, hanging desperately onto Jeremy’s neck.

The short man just laughs, loud and brash, and Gavin knows he can’t stay mad for long. “The mattress you guys picked out for this place is the best thing I’ve ever slept on, you’ll be asleep in no time. Just what you need.”

Gavin wants to protest, to insist that Jeremy put him down, but all of his energy vanishes as Jeremy’s warmth seeps into Gavin’s skin, and he finds himself leaning into Jeremy’s neck, peppering little kisses to his exposed collarbone as the former criminal carries Gavin up the stairs.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Logically, Michael knows that Gavin is all right. That he’s halfway across the world, completely out of danger. That he’s with Jeremy, and they’re both enjoying some time to each other in the Swiss Alps.

But Michael has never really subscribed to logic. Despite hearing Jeremy’s voice on the phone after the fact, he can’t stop seeing the burning wreckage, smelling the putrid stink of gas in the air. Even though he’d talked to Gavin after his crash, he can’t help but replay the image of his boyfriend plunging into the ocean, his bright pink suit fading into the blue of the ocean. He knows it’s part of the plan, he really does. But he can’t bring himself to care much about the plan so much as he cares about getting back to his partners, to holding them again.

As he dumps the last of the gasoline container onto the concrete floor, a dense numbness coils around his stomach. He can faintly hear sirens speeding down the road, the noise aggravatingly familiar at this point, and the stiffness leaves his shoulders as they recede into the distance. God, he’ll be so grateful to leave this city behind. Michael has been in Los Santos since he was a kid, only venturing outside of its limits to go on jobs or vacationing with the crew. And, as much as someone might typically love their home, the city they were born in, Michael feels nothing more than a burning indifference. He’s fought countless turf wars, brought down other gangs, blown up more buildings than his pyro-manic inner child would have ever thought possible. But at this point, he’s done it all. Seen it all. Lived it all. He shakes the gas can one more time, tossing into the corner.

Michael shoves the body into the middle of the room, the gas soaking into their clothes. The body used to belong to a drug lord who had crossed Geoff a long while ago. He was lucky he was about Michael’s height and weight, or else they would have ended his life months ago. As it is, the coincidence had bought him a few more weeks until they had use for him. But now the criminal’s time has come, and Michael stares at the body, face impassive. The body’s in place, the power line is ready, the exit door is open and waiting. He’d parked the car in a little alleyway a few streets down, easy enough to make it on foot and far enough away that no one will think twice about him, especially with a burning building a few blocks away. He kicks the body one last time, tells himself it’s belated revenge for all the trouble the criminal had caused Geoff, and turns on his heel.

The power line swings idly in the corner, the frayed edges sparking dangerously. Michael grabs the insulated rubber line, tugging it out a bit. It lands right near a thing stream of gas, the sparks landing on the concrete around the edge of the pool. Given enough time he knows it will reach the main source, lighting up the whole building more readily than dry brush in the summer. Heaven knows he’s set up enough explosives and accelerants around the abandoned warehouse to burn it like a flare. He lets the wire coil around his feet, and he has to resist the urge to watch the white sparks dance on the concrete. There’s things he needs to do. People he needs to see.

Michael slips quickly out the back door, making sure to lock the door before shutting it with a resounding clang. He pauses for a moment, and breathes easy when no one comes to investigate. They’ve spent so long planning this, risked so much to get here. There’s no way he’s letting the plan fall apart now.

He’s almost out of the alleyway and onto the street when a flash of gold catches his eye. A huge “G” is sprayed onto the side of the building, glittering and gold in the dying sunlight. It’s garish, it stands out, and it smells so strongly of chemicals that it burns Michael’s nose a bit. And Gavin would have loved it. Michael grins a bit, brushing his fingers on the painted brick. He knows that Gavin probably won’t catch tonight’s news story all the way over in Switzerland; hell, he doesn’t even know if the camera will catch this particular detail. Still, he likes to imagine that Gavin knows somehow, that he appreciates Michael’s little tribute.

Michael swallows around the sudden lump that forms in his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets and trudging down the street.

He can just begin to hear the roaring of the fire when he gets to the car, sliding the burner phone from his pockets as he starts the engine. Geoff picks up on the first ring, and Michael feels his spirit lift at the older man’s voice.

“Is it done?”

“Yep, the body’s set, the fire’s started, and I sent an anonymous tip to the news stations that there’s a fire happening.” Geoff had been adamant about getting as much media coverage for this stunt as possible; with the amount of crews after them at the moment, it’s best to get the word out as quickly as efficiently as possible. Keep as many people as possible looking at the fire and no one will notice Michael’s quick escape.

Geoff breathes a sigh of relief, and Michael’s mouth turns down at the corners. “You guys gonna be all right?” They’re all more than capable, Michael knows this. He’s known this for years. Still, the idea of being away for so long, of being unable to protect them, leaves him more than a little nervous.

“We’ll be fine,” Ryan replies, his voice gravelly and tinny over the line. “We’ve survived this long, we can last a few more weeks.”

“I guess you’re right…” Michael mumbles.

“Trust us,” Jack says. “You just worry about catching your flight on time. We’ll see you again in no time, I promise.” If it had been years ago, if Michael had been younger and hadn’t known Jack so well, he wouldn’t have heard the slight tremor in her voice. But he’s known her for years, can recognize the fear in her voice even over the phone. And he can’t blame her; their part of the plan is the riskiest out of them all. If something happens then—

Michael shakes his head, snapping himself out of those thoughts. Worrying about it won’t help now, no matter how uneasy it makes him.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replies, easing the car onto the highway. Already ambulances and fire trucks are speeding their way to the fire, the amber glow of the flames reflecting onto the neighboring buildings.

“You stay safe, okay?” Geoff says, and Michael clutches the phone just a little tighter.

“Yeah. You keep out of trouble, old man.” Michael hears Ryan snigger in the background, and he resists the urge to grin quite so widely. “I love you guys.” The words come naturally to him, as easy as breathing, and he knows it can’t be any truer.

“We love you too,” three voices chorus back at him, and Michael has to end the call before the others can hear him start to cry. He may be Mogar, Ramsey’s infamous attack dog, the pyromaniac of Los Santos, feared killer among criminals, but right now, Michael Jones sobs to himself, grip tight on the steering wheel as he leaves his city behind, his lovers left along with it.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Michael is fuming when he arrives at the cottage.

It’s been a trying few days to say the very least. First was the whole business with setting the fire, then some asshole at the airport decided that his suitcase was two pounds too heavy, then he nearly missed his connection in Germany thanks to some dumb fucking directions he’d gotten from some dumb fucking locals. By the time he pulls up to the cottage, a steady headache is throbbing behind his eyes, and he can feel the impulse to blow something up itching in his fingers.

All of that evaporates in an instant when he sees Gavin round the corner of the house, followed closely by Jeremy. The taller man has something in his hand, a gardening trowel it looks like, and he’s laughing easily with Jeremy, the smaller of the two shoving Gavin’s shoulder lightly and he smirks. Gavin leans down to peck Jeremy on the lips, and Jeremy loops a hand around Gavin’s waist, cradling him gently.

A lump rises in Michael’s throat, and he doesn’t try to stop the tears flowing down his cheeks as he throws the car door open, speeding up the driveway. Gavin and Jeremy turn at the noise, their hands instinctively going to their waists where their guns would normally hang, but both of them break into grins when they see Michael. Gavin and Jeremy barrel towards him, both men throwing their arms around his shoulders and waist, each trying to speak over the other, their voices music to Michael’s ears.

Michael wants to kiss them each desperately, wants to hear their voices and tell them how much he’s missed them, and how elated he is to see them again. But all he can do is crush them to his body, face buried in Gavin’s neck and hands clutching desperately at Jeremy’s shoulders. He doesn’t care that his shoulders are shaking, or that he’s sobbing brokenly into his partner’s soil-stained shirt; all he can feel is the way his heart is slowly mending, the way his own shirt is growing damp where he’s holding his lovers.

“Are you crying, Michael?” Jeremy quips, his own voice thick and cracking as he pulls back to look at Michael.

“Nah, just the allergies,” Michael shoots back, cupping Jeremy’s cheek with one hand and crushing their lips together. He tastes like orange juice and toast, smells like flowers and aftershave, and Michael knows he’ll never get enough of it. Jeremy throws his arms over Michael’s shoulders, pressing his body flush against his, and suddenly everything Michael’s had to do over the past several weeks is worth it.

Jeremy pulls away after a moment, and Michael barely gets a chance to breathe before Gavin is pulling Michael’s face towards himself, kissing him like a dying man fighting for breath. Michael hooks his arms around Gavin’s waist, pulling him off the ground. Gavin loops his legs around Michael’s hips, and Michael feels Jeremy reach out to steady the both of them, pressing his torso to Michael’s back.

“We missed you, boi,” Gavin whispers after a moment, pulling back just enough to press another kiss to Michael’s forehead.

“We really did,” Jeremy echoes, pressing his lips to the shoulder of Michael’s coat.

“I missed you too,” Michael replies, and suddenly he doesn’t have the energy to be witty or sarcastic. Instead, the only thing he can be is happy; with two of his partners pressed close like this it’s hard not to be.

Suddenly Gavin hops down off of Michael, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Michael peers over his shoulder to see the same look reflected in Jeremy’s face. “Oh, is that right?" Gavin purrs, sliding his pleasantly cold hands underneath the hem of Michael’s shirt.

“Why don’t you show us how much?” Jeremy asks, a challenge in his voice as he presses and open-mouthed kiss to the hollow behind Michael’s ear.

A pleasant shiver runs up Michael’s spine, and he breathes out an emphatic “hell yeah” as he tugs both of his partners to the house, each man practically glued to another as they make their way up to the master bedroom, layers of clothes stripped away in their ascent up the stairs.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

The blood is rushing in his ears, sirens wail behind him, and Ryan is _loving it_.

This is his favorite part of the job, always has been: the adrenaline, the speed, the wind whipping through the open window as he takes pot shots at the cop cars in pursuit. The countryside scenery bleeds into a pleasant tableau, the setting sun in the backdrop as he whips around a corner, another laugh tearing its way from his lips as two of the patrol cars slide into each other, tumbling end over end into the ditch.

“This is your last warning: pull over!” a voice crackles over the loudspeaker from behind him, nearly lost in the roar of the wind as he speeds along.

“This is _your_ last warning: fuck off!” the Vagabond screams back, belly-laughing as he manages to catch a patrol car’s tire, watching with child-like glee as the car spins out, the hood smoking a bit as it collides with a mail box.

Ryan knows the plan, knows that he’s supposed to lead the cops on a chase just long enough for Geoff and Jack to make their move. He knows that he’s supposed to be the distraction and takes no offense to this; it’s part of his job as the crew’s defender, and if he gets to fuck up some pigs along the way, well Ryan’s not going to complain. The sirens wail, his blood sings, and he whips around another intersection, the gun in his hand clicking as he spends the last of his bullets. Well then. Time to get down to business.

Ryan expertly maneuvers the vehicle down a small country-side street, right where Geoff had planned this stage of the operation to take place. He know there’s going to be a police blockade before he even sees the flashing lights in the distance, knows exactly where the spike strip is placed before his wheels give out. One of the benefits of working alongside the police force is being in on every single plan they make, and this is no exception; Ryan’s tires pop right at the mile marker, and it takes everything he has to keep the car from rolling. As it is, the car tips dangerously, the bare metal wheels screeching along the pavement, sparks trailing in his wake.

Ryan’s ears are ringing when he finally slides to a stop, his neck a little more than stiff from being tossed around. More than a dozen armed officers are right outside his window, each with their firearms pointed directly at him. Being at the wrong end of a gun isn’t an unfamiliar sight to the infamous Vagabond, and even behind the mask he barely reacts as several voices scream at him in unison.

“Get out of the car!”

“Hands on your head!”

“Don’t move!”

“Hands on the steering wheel!”

“I said get out of the car!”

Ryan just scoffs, raising his hands above his head. Incoherent and conflicting orders are all he can hear over the police sirens, and Ryan has to wonder if it was really the brilliance of Geoff’s heist planning that let them survive for this long or if it was the incompetence of the LSPD. Ryan slowly reaches for the door handle, trying to step out of the car like one of the officers had shouted, but another runs up to the door, gun shaking in an unsteady grip as he shouts “Don’t fucking move!”

Ryan says nothing; years of experience have taught him that trying to reason with high-strung officers does nothing more than get you unnecessarily shot. Instead, Ryan turns his head ever so slightly, the black skull mask glinting dangerously in the light of the setting sun, and he _growls_. Panic flashes across the officer’s face, and the colour drains from the man’s face as he stumbles back a step. Ryan has to keep himself from looking too smug; the rumours that the Vagabond is more beast than man have served him well over the years, striking fear into the hearts of both straight-laced lawmen and crooked criminals time and time again.

Before the man can regain his footing, a voice cuts through the commotion. “Stand down, Anderson,” Sergeant Burns snaps, and the timid officer quickly scuttles back, giving Burnie Burns a clear line to Ryan. His gun is pointed directly at Ryan’s forehead, his face drawn and serious, his hands unwavering. “Out of the car, Vagabond.” His tone leaves no room for argument, and Ryan is almost certain that this man is the only reason that the LSPD hasn’t fallen apart yet.

Ryan slowly levers himself out of the car, hands still above his head, and fixes Burns with a cold stare. Ryan’s been in more standoffs with Sergeant Burns than he could possibly keep track of, engaged in an elaborate game of cat and mouse, each operating from opposite sides of the law. Burns has been on their payroll for years now, leaking tips and insider secrets given enough of an incentive. He’d seen Burns defeated by the Fakes, been in the back of his squad car, been on the other end of his gun multiple times. But here, on the otherwise abandoned intersection, hands raised with the officer’s sight aimed directly between his eyes, Ryan just hopes that Geoff’s bribe was incentive enough.

“Well well,” Burns purrs, something close to smug satisfaction crossing his face. “Here we are again.”

Ryan stays silent, arms still raised, and he has to fight the instinct to reach for his gun. It hangs heavy at his side, and he can practically feel the variety of knives he has hidden on his person burns at his skin, itching to be used.

“Nothing smart to say this time?” Burns asks, and Ryan merely glares at him, his piercing blue eyes standing in stark contrast to the midnight-black of his mask.

“Anderson, cuff him,” Burns barks, and the pale man steps out from behind Burnie, a pair of cuffs in his still-shaking hands. Ryan almost laughs when he sees Anderson gulp, his obvious Adam’s apple bobbing with nerves as he steps closer.

Anderson barely has time to start on his Miranda Rights before Ryan’s hands clamp around his wrists, twisting with furious speed and slamming Anderson into the pavement. He hears the other man screech in surprise before he brings a boot down on his face, and Anderson’s body goes limp, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.

Then a gunshot rings out.

Ryan’s expecting the shot. It’s part of the plan, after all. But still, when he feels the impact, the Kevlar buckling underneath the bullet and folding around it, he loses his breath, the ground rushing up to meet him faster than he’d thought it would.

Ryan has barely hit the ground before Burns is standing over him, one hand on Ryan’s neck and the other on his back, pressing him in to the pavement. “Stay down, don’t move,” Burnie whispers urgently. He reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a small packet of blood, smearing it quickly on the cracked cement near Ryan’s head. The metallic scent stings at Ryan’s nose, but he remains completely still, even as Burnie swipes a bit of it onto Ryan’s chest, right where the bullet digs into the body armor, and onto mask just above his eyes.

Ryan can feel the bullet pressing against his ribs, his lungs screaming from the impact, crying for air, but he remains still, even as he hears an ambulance pull up, sees the flashing lights from the corner of his eye. Burns still stands over him, warning the other officers away, but their voices sound distant and distorted, and his vision is just beginning to waver as Burnie hauls him up, his hands gripping one arm as someone else grabs the other.

Ryan’s been shot before, with and without the Kevlar, but a bullet lodged near your skin is something that you don’t really get used to, and it takes everything Ryan has not to cry out as they move him. His breath is too short and his body aches as he gets hauled into the back of the truck, the cold metal of the ambulance floor reassuring as it seeps through his mask. The heavy doors clunk shut behind him, and he feels the engine rumble to life as the truck pulls away, the sounds of sirens fading into the distance.

Ryan doesn’t dare to breathe until he feels a hand on his shoulder, looks up to see Burnie leaning over him in the dim light of the emergency vehicle. “You okay?” is all he asks.

Ryan tries to respond, to say that he’s okay, but the ache in his ribs protests, and all he can manage is a curt nod as he sits up, cradling his side gingerly. “Who’s driving?” he grits out, and he can feel the sweat begin to bead down his face.

“Gus,” answers, and his eyes flicker down to Ryan’s injury, then back up to his face. “Sorry about that by the way. Want me to…?” Burns trails off, gesturing vaguely at what is most definitely a spreading bruise along Ryan’s torso. Ryan hesitates for a moment, not sure whether or not to trust the man who just shot at him even if it was under Geoff’s orders, but the ambulance rolls over a particularly rough pothole, and Ryan stiffly nods his consent. Burnie shuffles closer, pulling a spare first aid kit from a small compartment near Ryan’s shoulder, and sets to work, peeling the Kevlar from his torso.

Though Ryan stiffens as he feels Burnie’s calloused fingers on his skin, he just lets his head rest against the metal siding of the truck, unafraid as the police man sets to wrapping his ribs. While it’s true that both Ryan and Burnie work of opposite sides of the law, it’s not like they’re not familiar with each other; true, they’ve been on the wrong side of each other’s pistols more often than not, but Burnie’s been working for Geoff as long as Ryan can recall. Burnie has been to the penthouse multiple times for nothing more than a beer, and he’s risked his neck in the police force more times than Ryan could count. There aren’t very many people Ryan can truly trust, and almost all of them are his partners.

Burns and Sorola are welcome exceptions.

“Sorry about Anderson, by the way,” Ryan hisses between his teeth as Burnie puts a little too much pressure on his wound.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m actually glad you tossed him around a bit, the guy’s a racist prick. Had it coming.” A small smirk twitches at the side of Burnie’s mouth, and Ryan can’t help but chuckle quietly.

Burnie is just putting the finishing touches on Ryan’s bandages when the ambulance begins to slow, and Burnie hops up to his feet, peering out of the back window. “We’re here,” is all he says before leaning down and offering Ryan a hand up.

Ryan grasps Burnie’s hand and the two stumble their way out of the ambulance, Ryan leaning on Burnie’s shoulder a bit. The sky is already dark, and the small dirt clearing where Sorola has pulled over is dimly lit only be a nearby street light. The muddy odor of the river lingers nearby, and Ryan can just make out the sounds of rushing water. Gus Sorola makes his way to the back of the truck towards them, a tired frown set on his lips. “I made sure we weren’t followed,” he says, his voice clipped and formal. “Your car is just over that hill, the keys are in the sun visor.”

Ryan nods his thanks; he hasn’t known Sorola as long as Burnie, and even when they had been properly introduced the Lieutenant had kept largely to himself, but Geoff trusts Gus, so that’s enough for Ryan. Gus nods back, and Ryan thinks he sees a hint of a smile as Gus shuffles back to the driver’s seat.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye, Ryan. Hopefully for good, no offense.”

Ryan pauses for a moment; while the people closest to him know his name, it’s still a little jarring hearing it from a cop, let alone a cop Ryan considers a friend. Near the beginning, there had only been one person who had known Ryan’s real name, and it had been the man it belonged to. Everyone had known him as the Vagabond, the mad mercenary, the scourge of Los Santos. A man who would kill anyone, do anything, commit any crime for the right price. A man not driven by the urge to protect but the insatiable need to destroy. The Vagabond had not been a persona so much as his identity, with “Ryan” occupying the back of his mind.

With the Fakes, that had changed much faster than Ryan had ever expected. Geoff had taken him in, given him a home. Michael and Gavin had practically latched onto him immediately, choosing to ignore the rumours and stories of the Vagabond’s mercilessness in favour of including him in their whacky schemes. Jack had taken a while longer to warm up to him, more than a little cautious about bringing a mass murderer into their home. Jeremy had joined after Ryan, but had taken an instant liking to him, evolving from star-struck stares from across the room to joking easily with the older man.

And now, at the end of the road, Ryan can’t possibly think of any other way he would rather have spent his life. With Jack and Geoff, the wind in his sails and the dock to anchor him. With Michael, the firecracker, and Gavin, the silver-tongued goof. With Jeremy, a man with enough gumption for half of the city and no impulse control. The thought of his partners, his lovers, his family, sends his heart to fluttering, and he’s suddenly filled with a longing, deep and painful, to be in their arms again.

“You in there, Ryan?” Burns asks, waving a cautious hand in front of his face.

Ryan startles a bit, bringing himself back to the present. “Y-yeah,” is all he can manage, reaching to shake Sergeant Burns’s hand absently before stalking off in the opposite direction without another word. There’s a fire under his skin now, a need to see those closest to his heart, and there’s never been anything that can stop the Vagabond, or Ryan Haywood, when he wants something.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Jack and Geoff see Ryan go down from the helicopter.

The whirring of the blades above nearly overpowers the blood rushing in Jack’s ears, the absolute heartbreak that run through her core as she sees her lover collapse. Logically, she knows that Burnie is on their side. Logically, she knows that this is all part of the plan, she’s known this for ages, hell, she helped _plan it_. But still, watching Ryan’s body crumple, watching him hit the cement, has a lump rising in her throat.

“Keep us on course, Jackie,” Geoff says from beside her, and she can hear the thickness in his voice, see the way his fingers tighten around hers. They’d decided not to hook Ryan up to the coms, knew that with so many cops around the chances of their signal getting hijacked was too great. Still, Jack’s beginning to regret that decision, especially as she spots Sergeant Burns drag Ryan’s limp form into the back of the ambulance.

Jack jerks on the joystick, swinging the chopper farther north towards Chiliad. Los Santos lays in grids beneath her, nothing but neon lights and police sirens, and it strikes her just how much of her life has been spent inside the limits of this city. Jack was born in this city to a family too poor to leave. She grew up a vagrant in this city, too stubborn to quit. She became the Queen of this city, too interested in conquering every corner of her empire, her family at her side, to ever consider going somewhere else. True, she’s been out of the city several times, seen foreign shores and plains and forests, but she’s always returned back here, to the city’s less-than-clean streets and her family’s waiting arms.

To be completely honest, her family is the only reason she stayed. The criminals around here are two-bit and petty, far too consumed with their own greed to amount to much. The people are all dead-eyed, waiting for their lives to either end or improve on their own, whichever comes first. She knows the streets like the back of her hand, the gang territories and the invisible borders, which convenience stores have broken security cameras and which gas station has the best midnight burritos. With her family there, it had been easy to get used to the humdrum of city life, the bland monochrome of Los Santos. But now, with one lover in the back of an ambulance, one at her side, and the others halfway across the world, she knows there’s nothing left here for her.

It all lies in Switzerland.

“Almost there,” Geoff says, his static-y voice over the intercoms breaks Jack out of her reverie. Jack peers through the encroaching darkness, and sure enough, Mount Chiliad looms on the horizon, the silhouette cast from below by hundreds of street lamps and neon signs.

Jack knows the plan. She helped _build_ the plan. But now, with the chopper whirring around her and her end in sight, she can’t help but hesitate. Everything she has is in this city. Everything she’s ever known, everything she’s ever built. It’s where she met Geoff, where she found her family. Her hand stills on the controls, and the chopper tilts to a halt. Jack’s never been one to shy away from danger, never been one to back down from a challenge. But now, with everything on the line, her family, her happiness, there’s a clawing doubt in the pit of her stomach that this is somehow the wrong choice. Once they do this, there’s no going back. Ever.

“Everything okay, Jackie?”

A gentle pressure presses into the back of her hand, and she looks up, her eyes locking with Geoff’s. They’re brimming with concern, tear tracks still fresh down his cheeks. His beard is a little more unkempt than normal, the hairs looking more than frayed wires than anything. He’s gaunt, more so than when this whole adventure started, and Jack knows she can’t love him more than she already does.

She shakes her head a bit, a reassuring smile working its way onto her face. “I’m fine, Geoff, don’t worry.” She squeezes his hand back, tilting the helicopter towards the mountain once again.

The future has always scared Jack, no matter how much she’s tried to ignore it. Fear for her lovers with how dangerous their lives are, fear for their relationship when it got a little bumpy, fear for herself, for what she might do if her family was ever taken from her. But with Geoff here, Ryan on the way, and the others already waiting, that fear disappears, leaving only a nervous anticipation coiling in her stomach, and suddenly she can’t wait for what the future holds.

“Are the parachutes ready?” Jack asks, already putting the chopper into autopilot.

“Yep,” Geoff replies, getting out of his chair and grabbing the two chutes from the cargo area. The two replacement bodies sit in the passenger seats, and Geoff grabs one, hefting it up to the cockpit.

Is it a little gauche to use the bodies of your most hated rivals as your stand-ins in order to fake your own death? Maybe. But it certainly is the Fakes’ style. Jack moves to grab her stand-in, a woman who has caused them far too much trouble in recent years, what with her attempts to take their territory and her ruthlessness towards civilians. Killing her had been a pleasure that Jack had elongated, delighting in making that woman regret every choice she’d ever made.

But now, at least the woman can be useful to them. She tugs the body to the cockpit, setting it in her seat. The aircraft is still set on its course, the broadside of Chiliad looming in front of them, and Jack leans over to the console, locking in the trajectory.

No going back now.

“You ready?” Jack asks, sliding her parachute over her shoulders, the straps fitting comfortably over her torso.

“Hell yeah,” Geoff replies, tugging at his own straps. He shoots Jack a thumbs up, a lopsided grin on his face, and Jack has to hold back a snort of laughter. Trust Geoff Ramsey to make a tense situation a little lighter.

Jack tugs off her headset, throwing it to the side and sliding open the side hatch. The wind whips into the cabin, sending her hair to whipping around her face, and she turns to Geoff, smiling a little too wild and so very happy. She grips his face in her hands, only pausing so that he can take off his headset too before crashing their lips together. Even in the wind he feels warm, and he snakes his arms around her waist, pressing their bodies together until they’re flush. Jack pulls away when the proximity alarm starts to beep frantically, and she grabs onto Geoff’s arm with one hand, gripping the side of the helicopter’s door with the other.

“On three!” Geoff shouts, his voice barely carrying over the whirring of the helicopter blades overhead.

“One!” Jack shouts, gripping Geoff’s hand tighter.

“Two!” Geoff yells, squeezing back, his hand trembling slightly.

“Three!” they both shout in unison, and then they both leap off the edge, their hands still intertwined.

Jack lets go almost immediately, angling her body away from Geoff’s, and for a moment she just lets the feeling of falling surround her. The wind rushing past her ears, the way her clothes ripple against her skin, her hair pulled back by the force of her descent. It’s exhilarating, it’s terrifying, and it’s the last time she’s going to feel it. She lets the adrenaline flood through her veins, lets her fingers wiggle against the wind, and finally she pulls the cord. The chute unfurls behind her, the straps tighten around her torso, her breath is punched from her lungs, and then she hangs in the air, her chute lit by the city lights below.

“You okay!?” she hears Geoff shout, and Jack has to twist to see her partner circling lazily in the air, some distance above her and looking more than a little frightened.

“Yeah!” Jack shouts back, her heart still pounding in her ears as she flashes a grin and a thumbs-up. She turns back to Chiliad, sees the chopper still on its collision course, and something inside of her settles. All of her nerves, her racing thoughts, her gnawing doubts, all of it dissipates when the boom echoes off of the mountainside, when she sees the plume of smoke and fire erupt from the collision site. Her favorite chopper, her prized possession, now lays in ruin on her favorite mountainside, and Jack can’t find it in her to be sad. Instead, a rampant excitement fills her, and she angles her chute further west, aiming for the small abandoned gas station that they’d scoped out months before.

Jack lands with a tumble and a laugh, her joints protesting the rough landing but too thrilled to care. Months of work, of planning, of worrying are finally over, and the exhilaration fills Jack’s veins, bubbles up in her stomach until she’s doubled over in laughter, little wheezing noises tumbling from her lips. She shirks her safety harness just as Geoff lands, and Jack rushes to him, throwing her arms around his neck, crushing their lips together once again. Geoff squeaks, slightly startled, but soon he grabs at Jack’s shoulders, lips moving furiously against hers.

They soon part for breath, and Geoff’s lips are red and bruised, his cheeks dusted with pink, and Jack’s never been more in love.

“Well if that’s how you react, I’ll have to fake my death more often,” Geoff quips, shrugging off his harness with a grunt.

“Nope, that was a one-time thing. If you fake your death again I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Geoff replies, looping his arm around Jack’s waist as they pick their way around the cracking concrete, making their way to the car stashed near the empty gas station. The night is still other than the sound of gravel crunching underfoot, Geoff’s hand is brushing against Jack’s skin where her shirt is riding up, and Jack leans her head against his shoulders, breathing in the scent of fancy cologne and aftershave and something distinctly Geoff. Jack smiles into Geoff’s neck, tightens her grip around his waist, and feels something heavy lift from her shoulders.

Their getaway vehicle is parked on the far side of the building, and it’s the most beautiful thing Jack’s ever seen. The car itself isn’t anything special, something Ryan had stolen from an impound lot last week. One of the mirrors is missing and the paint job is dated and fading, but it’s Jack’s ticket out. It’s what will take her and Geoff and Ryan to their happy ending, and that’s enough for her.

Jack doesn’t even notice the other car in the lot until the door opens. Her heart leaps into her throat, her hand instantly going to rest on her sidearm, and she feels Geoff do the same beside her. In the flickering light of the street lamps Jack can’t see a face, she can only see the vague outline of a man, broad-shouldered and limping slightly. The shape lumbers its way into the light, the black skull mask glittering underneath the fluorescent lamplight.

“You’re alive.” Ryan’s words are weighted with relief and so soft Jack nearly misses them, but she wastes no crossing the distance between them, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Ryan grunts in pain but steadies himself, crushing Jack to him tightly, mumbling soft words into her skin. Jack feels Geoff come up behind her after a moment, looping one arm around Ryan and the other around her, pressing them both to his chest.

Back in the penthouse, near the beginning of anything, Jack had felt unsteady about this whole thing. She’d seen the necessity of it all, known about the risks of staying in Los Santos, but had been unsure about the plan. When Jeremy had gone, then Gavin, then Michael, she’d tried to hide her fear, her sorrow. She knew that her family was safe, but being cut off from them for so long had done nothing to settle her nerves. But now, here, in the middle of an abandoned parking lot at midnight after jumping from a helicopter, she feels the pieces click into place.

“Come on,” Geoff says from behind her, and Jack pulls herself from the tangle of arms. Ryan’s eyes are glistening, and Geoff is openly crying, but there’s a smile on his lips. “Let’s go home.”

Jack nods in agreement, takes her boys’ hands in each of hers, and starts towards the car, feeling the weight of the last few months fall off her shoulders.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Jack is asleep in the back seat of the car, Ryan snoring lightly beside her, and Geoff grips the steering wheel tighter, trying to keep his eyes open. He’s tired. Has been for a while.

True, it’s late at night and the plane trip was exhausting, but it’s a different kind of weariness that tugs at him. It’s the kind of fatigue that seeps into your very core, makes your legs heavy and your arms sore. The kind of tired where you have to fight to keep your eyes open, the kind of tired that weighs on your soul. It would have been easy to deal with if it had been simply from the stress of the plan. While it’s true that watching each of his lovers fake their deaths had been a heavy burden to shoulder, keeping him up and invading his dreams more often than not, the weight has been there longer than these past few months. Before he came up with the plan, hell, even before he had gotten the news about Ray. It feels like it’s more a part of him than he is, and Geoff has to take a second to wonder if he’s ever been without it.

But, as he pulls up the driveway, soft light filtering through the cottage windows, that weight falls away.

Gavin has his back turned to the large bay window in the living room, his hips swaying as he dances lazily around the living room. Michael and Jeremy watch him, matching grins on their faces and absolute adoration in their eyes. They’re lounging on the couch, arms slung over each other, and Geoff’s heart aches. He’s lived with these men for the past several years, loved them for just as long, and was fairly confident that he’d be able to go a few months without missing them too much.

Geoff has never been more wrong.

By all accounts Geoff should be tired. He should be sore from the crash, exhausted from the plane trip, worn-down from the stress of the last few months. But as he leaps from the car, he feels none of his bruises, his scrapes, his aches. Instead, all he can feel is joy as he barrels right up to the front door, throwing it open with a bang.

“What the—” Gavin squawks, and god Geoff’s missed that sound.

The living room is silent for a moment, save only for a soft pop song playing in the background, and Geoff can’t do anything except for stare. Gavin’s gotten a little grayer around the beard since Geoff saw him last, the crinkles around his eyes a little deeper than he remembers. Michael has traded in his patent leather jacket for a plain black tee shirt and sweat pants, and Geoff has never loved him more. Jeremy’s hair is finally growing out more, mere fuzz but still longer now than it has been in a couple years, and Geoff feels an overwhelming urge to run his hands through it.

“Geoff?” Jeremy breathes, and Geoff’s heart swells.

“Yeah,” is all he can say before three pairs of arms encircle him, their bodies pressed to his and their laughter in his ears. Geoff simply clutches all three men tighter, breathing in their scent; toothpaste, pepperoni pizza, and lavender soap. It’s disgusting and so very them and he breathes deeply, letting it surround him.

“It’s almost like you guys missed me or something,” Geoff chuckles, wiping stray tears form his eyes as he pulls back.

“Not one bit,” Jeremy quips back, stretching a bit to press a kiss to Geoff’s lips. Geoff melts into the embrace, and desperately wishes he’d taken the time to groom his beard beforehand. Jeremy doesn’t seem to mind the texture too much, but his hands wind around Geoff’s waist, and Geoff’s heart sings. Michael and Gavin crowd around him, pressing small kisses to his shoulders, his neck, anything they can get at. Geoff has to pull away after a moment, his head spinning, his lips bruised and red.

“Where’s Ryan and Jack?” Michael asks from behind, and Geoff rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“…still asleep in the back of the car?”

“Geoff!” Gavin squawks, and both he and Michael sprint out the door.

Jeremy snickers beside him, hanging off of Geoff’s arm. “I can’t believe you forgot them.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault! Okay, maybe it’s a little my fault, but I missed you guys! Can you blame me?”

“Not really,” Jeremy hums, pressing another kiss to his cheek before grabbing his hand and dragging him back out into the driveway. Jeremy's palm is warm against his own, and Geoff takes a moment to realize just how much he’s missed Jeremy, his enthusiasm, is dry and blunt humor, his unwavering presence. Geoff squeezes lightly, and Jeremy squeezes back, neither man able to hide their grins.

By the time they reach the others, Ryan is kissing Michael with ferocity, Ryan’s hands wound around Michael's shoulders, Michael's hands fisted in Ryan’s shirt. Beside them, Jack is clutching Gavin tightly, their faces hidden in each other’s shoulders as they simply hold each other, swaying lightly on their feet in the cold.

Jeremy drops Geoff’s hand, immediately rushing to Ryan, looping his arms around both Ryan’s and Michael's waists. He can faintly hear them mumble things back and forth, quiet reassurances and welcome-homes, and Geoff has never been happier. He makes his way over to Jack and Gavin, placing his hands on Gavin's hips and letting the younger man’s heat warm his body. He buries his nose in Gavin’s blond locks, smiling as Jack unwinds her hand from Gavin’s neck to tangle her fingers with his own.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this,” Geoff says after a moment, “but it’s cold as dicks out here. Who wants to move this little party inside?”

“Wimp,” Michael jeers, but he still extracts himself from Ryan’s arms, tugging both him and Gavin towards the front door.

Geoff reaches for Gavin's hand, sighing in content as he feels the younger man’s fingers slot between his own. Jack slides up to Geoff’s left, taking his other hand, and they all make their way up to the house, letting the last of the sunset filter away as the door closes behind them.

 

..:..:..:..:..:..

 

Geoff had never really known what a “home” is supposed to feel like.

For years, people would tell him that his home was Los Santos, the neighborhood he grew up in, the shitty little flat his dad rented when he was a kid. None of that felt like a home, really; he spent far too much time there alone when he wasn’t causing trouble on the streets. Later, he’d try to call the penthouse a “home”. The title seemed to fit all right; after all, his favorite people resided inside those walls, his liquor cabinet was never empty, and there always seemed to be laughter in the air. But even there, there hung a kind of unease, an anxiety that ever criminal was accustomed to: the realization that it could end any day. Geoff had tried to shove that anxiety away for years, but even with his family at his side, it never completely disappeared.

But now, lying in bed, one arm behind his head and the other cradling Michael ever closer to him, the sounds of five people breathing peacefully around him, he realizes that that familiar weight is gone. No longer does he fear the end of his crew or the deaths of his family. He doesn’t feel the need to drown his anxiety in alcohol, the need to see his enemies burn to the ground just to be sure his lovers are safe. Instead, a peaceful fatigue sweeps over him, and his lets his eyes droop closed, a fond smile resting on his lips.

He’s home, he knows it now, and he feels himself drift away, letting the warmth of his family lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! I hope you all enjoyed it, because this was more of a test to see if I could actually finish something for once in my life. And I'm so glad I did! I'm very happy with how this turned out, and I hope you all like it too. Feel free to drop a kudos or leave a comment, and if you'd like you're more than welcome to stop by my tumblr, @the-million-mile-mountain. My ask box and requests are open, as always. Again, I hope you enjoyed!


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